Ballet by a precipitous elf, mother next to a truculent person, and sudden vocal thunderstorms transcribed in a notebook of memories wherein words grasp at sex:
we were staying at uncle’s favourite hotel.
The living poem – entitled “Plunging”– involved adventurous sweethearts performing abortive gestures in the lobby: private torments demonstrated while other guests watched.
The ‘get out of jail’ excursion came to a vigorous climax as the red-faced pond reflected (bathed) the criminal clouds. Rich sudden snow then fell
inside the sleep of the ugly landscapist, spreading across the girls, inducing in some a restless passion, seen in the portraits of motion and impulse, in the yearnings of affluent springtime,
in the poems inscribed at the heart of the town’s book
(one such begins:
‘Fruits fall through exhausted hands:
It is not an evening to have rustling in the woods,
Unless it is attended to by matron
Before she is purloined by the swarm.
On the hooks behind the forbidden
There hangs a quiet slovenly beauty,
Above the squashed blushing apples’).
The polite girl at reception told us of the brutal land outside of the guide-book, a land where priests burden the populace with duty. All types of idiot visit – financial boors and technique-maniacs, singers, good fellows, foreigners and mountain-climbers.
Lily took photographs “to develop the flesh”.
In Grindelwald we drank the exceptional wine (it tasted of musty cherries) then visited the grotto. An orgy of noise: the worried voice of the fountain, catcalls, and complaining dogs.
In Casino the town book supposes a stock volume in individuals for containing symbols of their unmetamorphosed selves.
Material by the author about the nearest places is expressed very raggedly in April.