I went to London on the spur of the moment for about five days, to sleep rough on the streets. This is little more than a holiday snap, but I think it's fun. She was a really nice cute girl.
Skinhead Girl Infatuation, English Beat Poetry
I wandered into the wilderness - the alternately hot and squally perplexing wilderness of London in August. Seeking to find some missing part of me and not really expecting too much from the whole endevor in any particular way - for it was not an especially well thought out plan and more just an itch that drove me to board that train to elsewhere on some da-da impulsive vision.
And there she was, pretty and petite in her denims with her skinhead girl haircut just grinning at me as I clowned around with the lost and found of this new adventure which chance had impromptu conspired to organise for me.
Another time I caught her grinning at me across the crowded concrete whereupon I played out my little street preaching mouthwash drinking scenarios.
Alternating between points of not wanting to be noticed at all by anyone - just rolling along - and then of course getting a bit exuberent as I am wont to do in the big city with the neon glare of girls and free alcohol all around.
And one time I swear I saw her little legs wobbling in some kind of way as I was being dead daffy and drinking cheap fizzy wine with some exuberent curly young guy in a black velvet jacket.
After that I started to talk to her mates from London's Baltic States and slowly swerved nearer and nearer to her - to her sweet smile and those wobbling legs and those blue eyes and that blonde skinhead - and that is the state of play so far - about there and no further at all.
The anonymous crowd reclaimed that smiling face and civilisation has temporarily lain claim to me. Yet perhaps all is not lost - I have done some loop garou browsing and who knows if I shall never see those wobbling legs or that smiling face nevermore, under the full moon.
Though I have a notion to believe I will - because my fear of hectors is not that large, maybe nil, and you just don't meet girls like that round here at all - and besides which I sense the crisis that might drive me to elsewhere on a locomotive may be coming soon.
She was a fine vision in denim - across a crowd like in the love stories penned by Barbara Cartland or such - there she was smiling and looking as I skylarked around.
I think I'll hit a yen to go London again - for, friends, aren't these moments of life and perceptions the instances from which wonder lusts take their fabric and existence? And aren't most men really worshippers of witches who feed us insane pies from empty dishes?
