A shipload of . And that was the . yes, she came along with child double fast. After he left for Berlin not able to speak. He drank himself blind into the stupidities of delirium tremens.

Nothing so much as a philosophy student drunk and Visions of the Christian virgin. So called . Wondering about Picasso and Kant and the strew of  TT's poetry.  Kant my arse, was his perpetual thought. And books of Soren Kierkegaard were. Nothe banks of Berlin and the obssessive lover . That place oozed danger . And delirium. He boarded with some mix of students and travelling workers, semi illiegals. And  a mysterious Mister P. No one ever got to the bottom of him, or it.

----Another tall tale . If you can that tall and taley. Gaelic gibberish is how I'd characterize. That's what the agent. The woman in black net stockings took of her pins, unbottoning and unsnapping. You can't see for loving her breasts. Nor the amazing memory of time. Its indulgent gentiles and 'merciful' god. There's none.

Take my finger follow me along the strand and I can see your way to new fish. Plaee you never seen. An end. Fiction.

                            Ah ~  Radio Canada _ my dove is not Radio France. Nor is Paris, that dirt city hovel you call home from time to time in the midst of your knee drip traveling. And if the bomb dropped what then. What infinite sound of nothing.