Forget Where I Heard It Forget Where I Heard It
With pigeon force the air men come clattering. It would be sad if it wasn’t so funny, one swore. Stay out of the nettles. Do not live above the shop. His men may find you there. Otherwise, as coma says, my beans, my peas, my coma get read into the riot act. That comes later. After three decades of futility, you have to ask: Who was this composer? Was he known for anything else? Is the mere survival of the notes justified, or do we all survive this way, more or less?
Longing of the Accords Longing of the Accords
"life's white machine" Geoffrey G. O'Brien and Jeff Clark We're all tenants, of one kind or another: lodgers, proprietors, houseguests. So what matters is what matters for most of us. We shrink in silken alarm in the corridor--someone is coming? But boa-clad ushers receive us. We were told we were on message, were the subject, or topic. In fact it made a little difference but not enough to disturb or quiet us. Concluding, perhaps rightly, we were of the one or other sort, you signed off. It was OK to take everything, though not to want it.