Ruffled up ducks, squat like rugby balls, Flotillas of swans, hydroplaning downstream like their wings are mounted with propellors, or doing impressions of Tunnel of Love Boats
I return from Nice, staked with fear. All the terrors of every b-movie? My scientist friend must be crazy. Is the train hot? The train is hot. Sunlight is doing a bombing run on the London of my eyes. Flashes,
Every 14th of February, whether or not I myself must plough through drifts of scented envelopes I like to recline, with some fortified wine, and spare a rare thought, unbidden, unsought for the legions of scowl-ridden, lovelorn misanthropes.