i'm safe, but the situation here is serious.
the opening line of an email from a soldier
and poet i claimed to know when we were together.
now i've half a pint of london lager and nothing serious
except the way i can fit all words related medieval latinists wrote in an application on the same page for ipad.
i am lucky for the way a lonely
laptop feels important in pub.
on the one hand i should be talking to someone
but the english have their own lives
and i wouldn't know how to contribute
i only pretend to know what they talk about in pub.
i wonder if i would be rich someday, bracing my body against the cold, walking the wrong way down the street. i ought to talk to londoners passing by, having been brought up in the language these streets speak. but i didn't find anything ghastly in the fall of the house of usher, and i don't know nearly enough of the technics of rugby to really offer an opinion. for my upbringing and me, it's only slightly short of romantic to be taking a year, living under the radar in italy, drinking the second half of a london lager in a really quite nice pub, in london, waiting for the successes of my father and my father's friends in a fancy spanish restaurant two doors down. really, if i hadn't forgotten the phantoms of women that usually haunt the sexual imagination, masturbating this morning, had squeezed ghosts a little more alive onto the bathroom tissue, or had spoken to someone in pub, here in london, i expect i would feel something more powerful, now.