An April Sunday brings the snow,
delicately bouncing against the panes of high windows as I watch the dedicated stride towards the Brynmor Jones, strangers to me as I am to you but although we have not met, I feel I know you.

A jam stained solid oak table adorned with scraps of paper, jottings only I could understand reminding me of the perilous homework
often not completed from my school day...

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Just a book in a charity shop it was

"The Oxford Dictionary of Quotations"

(Third impression, revised, 1943),

Except for a dedication:

"Presented to Miss H C Barr as a mark

Of esteem from her Falkirk colleagues

On the occasion of her transfer to Glasgow 13"

There was a formal stamp in purple:

"H M Inspector of Taxes, 4th December 1943,

Mission Lane, Falkirk, Scotland"

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I'm dedicated. Not addicted. I'm in control. It's my desicion. I say what And I say where. And if you ask jus rig;;

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I write, but I may be wrong

So I cross things out as I go along

Sometimes I will uncross too

Go back, revisit, start anew.

I write, but I may not know

The proper style or way to go

To free the feelings that I feel

And portray them true, with zest and zeal.

I write, but sometimes I ask

What is the purpose of this task?

Does any body realy care

To see and hear what I...

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Oh rise MJ
So they can say
Bukowski's looking down from heaven
Giving the nod to pen of Lemon

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This is the shell

I am only Human

So is he

So is she

Exploited Now.

Comprehension wants to know something of the perception.

I am not perfect

The devil strives for perfection.

What do we have to do

Who tested you?

They've been watching me ever since.

Capable of being alive.

Spiritually I am visiting you.

I am jumping around the universe from p...

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