Why? Is there a question that defines the question in itself? And as I travel along the Nile eating the Egypt. I stumble across the book of answers. But all are in code. If not code, they are just numbers in a book. The questions are required for the knowledge to be acquired. Why is this so? Why? Is there a question that defines the question in itself? This is in itself already stated, but the answer is still an open book always starting, once upon a time, as the fairies rest and the magic returns. I wonder if the castle comes out of the stars like the Marlin of today. The clouds are rising the pink and green is growing. The envy contradicts the admiring swan. Crossing the sea in a buttercup. A little animal crawling up a step across the wide-open space of the Nile with it's Rivera in the windowpane. As I continue the story continues not, what, am I mistaken? It seems not, however, I try to compose as the wind brushes the hair from my brow? A statement? No a question. If I were to come up the drainpipe to where the spider lays along the tile of heaven I would change in to the fish and swim in the rain. Swimming along the ocean bed eating the sea crustaceans why is there no other fish? Is the sea in it's element free from cats and glamis hath upon him?

Newspapers stacked alongside the fire ready for the incinerator in the hell that is the fire. When the crumpled flesh of god falls as rain and when the fog of the moon halts. So where aliens rest with its carry-on silence of sound. Virgin not touched in the crime of under-six nurse in the drain under-pain over-worked. Why? Is there a question, which defines the question in itself? The mansion of never ending space that lies before him is floating gender-less. The man/woman, the his/her, the Mr./Mrs. He is caring not to experience the gees and the bee-gees but to care and bear all the children in the city. Filling the A4 that is upon us in the graduate level 12 leading level over English? Is there a god upon which you built an absolute trust and then carry-on Columbia USA. Cookies and cream crawling along the pavement which supported you for those nine months.

A lei is a man ——— dot dot dots why is an only man the question? Is a man when he is used he will strike out of a flame, how is there a computer so powerful you cam carry a head for ninety-nine years.

Hit in the nose dog of the world used and abused if the man is all right cussing and pissing the night away. So when the down is rising, the out man that he seems to be, comes again. If you count the women that have clinged and stayed as if married when work could be done in the kitchen. Devils standing, waiting for the form of seat and toilet. Is this correct or is this blasphemer a call of the dove. Is he already crying for mercy, but after what he has done? What should be done to this man? Is there, no, will there be and inquiry into his death of the devil? I doubt this and the man travels. When they sleep lightly as if a little boy, they grow the herb in their mind. Staring at the down and outs and aiming for so much better carrying on like a deranged insomniac carrying the burden as if he were but a man whose creatures were dying around him.

Flying like a plane cruising and moving down the minidisc player, removal men removing the re-movables the staring at the most personal details and wondering why? Where did I go wrong and if can be identified under lab conditions and a formulae can be proven (which is universally accepted through the UK) what is the outcome? Of course! No wonder, Jupiter is wrongly aligned and if the man carriers carry the man on his shoulders like a dream then they will divorce. Egging on the man and for-filling the dream of being a wo-man who's a man who loves to dance but loves beer. A red-blooded individual? Quarter pounded, why? Is this happening to me Mr. man? And as if by magic all my prayers and pleas are an unforgettable dream who is a masculine France GCSE table, and is this is a spelling mistake corrected by the never in a million years squad.

Boat seeing the waves of darkness, death awaiting her, Linda. The girl of knitting at the christening under holy matrimony the sentence is passed and the judge is not the king but the queen. As the river runs along the green sloping sides of the meadows, I remember the pleasant days of glory.

Of an age 26, lean, I (the consummate loner) surface to the world of today, I appear quiet steady looking and a disarming smile, which flashes, from nowhere, lighting up my whole face. But behind that smile, around my dark eyes, in my gaunt cheeks, one can see the ominous stains caused by a life of private fear, emptiness and loneliness. I seem to have wandered in from a land where it is always cold, a country where the inhabitants seldom speak. The head moves, the expression changes, but the eyes remain ever fixed, unblinking, piercing empty space.

Carrying on like a crook drifting in and out of the New York City nightlife, a dark shadow among darker shadows. A drunken fool sipping the shady watered-down only by my tears, Not noticed, no reason to be noticed, I am in par with the surroundings.

As the seemingly to-do paragraphs have passed I wonder why. What are you saying? Jealously, no, maybe more undoubted as the 10:38 crawls past me. Cutting my legs.

So I am the sheep coming at you alive and dangerous stabbing your friends. Gratitude and magnitude staring you in the face screaming hello. Charity standing orders, on Sunday’s ring road supermarket buying that unnecessary dress.

Gun shooting at the never-ending start. How is this true? Lewis is canny/tin. Louis is Lewis but how is drainage carrying on through the hole that is black. And as the screen goes the curtain falls and the end is near. The crowd goes wild the generation screams and so does the mike. The ending is changed but I am not.

An ending past, a beginning coming. What!? No more is travelling, my heart is bleeding for you, but your friend will do. Ha, ha, ha, and your mum! Crying as the waterfalls give their rain the mist fogging up the heavens. God and Richard are drifting and rambling like a tourist trapped in Florida. Bumbag no but-ring yes. A queer man standing, AC-DC. Then I cross the sugar and turn to the dark side passing go and collecting �200.

Key ring, earring, earwig, red-wig, yeti-house. Catherine wheel, yachting across the Atlantic checking the compass and living the minute to satisfaction. Fucking the bitch and starting a family holiday without the crease in the lining. Oil on you nose carrying the smell from supper. Lying a fart to kiss the wo-man. Clubbing the men to death with nails and screws and still feeling happy and content at the end of it all pishing to find another job better than the rest but worse than the last beating the best but crushing the worst.

Dragon flies and bats. All are crying at the death of god who, as we all know, is in the same family as santa-clause, falls helplessly toward death. Falling off his perch but drifting of his status.

No longer is there a bigot who will carry many more than his fair share stating the up’s and down’s. Casserole burning in the oven pancakes on the confirmed cases. Picklock harrowing story or amusing fact. CD id, these are the dusk but is there another man who will summon the to heaven or hell? I stand here wondering where thee is now in relation to the packet of Weet-a-Bix standing in the REM station over there. Caring for nobody, cared by nobody standing astride dying a cruel and detailed death.

Nick,,,

Copyright � 1998 inclusive, Nicholas H. Dodd

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