When the ark was finished, Jericho left it six pieces of bread for the fish, late in the supermarket Tesco's with girls and boys. "Harry" he said forcefully, "find me a fishbone in yer neck at Barrent's bank building left tick". Harry complied. Necking Louise left it mary with a nine cloud baby, Gavin sold wrecked Maria's wine list in triumph over death.
Then almost negligently, something almost doomed, stopped, listened, almost broken thereupon... DEATH. LOVE. HOPE. SUBSIDED in upon itself like great leeches fools ghosts baronets, fat giants loving moms and each other's puddens.
Then next aeroplanes buildings scaremongers this great fish leapt left itself scared unfrightened at the edge of great airports scanty bras and whirlpool's last edge retreat.
Then all alf garnett maidens asleep on retrograde ambivalence hoped to find the next ark on fishguard hill beside the poppy, great poppy unloved by itself. "Happy hill" said it, nine.
The next krap feelers loved only one the ant hill curtain of dooms loves and columns in the New York Times and Alfred Solomon's mines and times and retro boys in Afghan suits achieved.
"You want what you can't have. Too many terrible fruits. And love at the end. Love at the end."
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