It is a sick masterpiece of a song. Lachrymose, sure— the dirty old river flowing into the night— all settled from a window.
I hate you, Ray!
A new colour raptured into the silky frocks of the English countree side: the blue blush before mort blood
meets air and soaks into cow pasture; it is lost now— merely abstraction, a fucked smear stranded on singing the wine dark epos, or secreted in the range between red and green;
For a time the smart sapphire hue at the quadrille matched the eyes of that bright, victorious tint the English fashionistas called ‘Waterloo blue’…
Ray gazed at that dizzy sunset and said as much as any could ask. Here he was, was a clock without hands.
Sherlock sd, “We have not yet met our Waterloo, Watson, but this is our Marengo.” He was, was a.
Julie sd, “That’s so optimistic. That’s still a Paradise.” Was, was.
Terry sd, “Waterloo sunset’s fine.” Was.
I’m turning it up, the pigeons are cooing in the junipers, and it’s the same sound!