scribbles this morning
There’s a library, tables and chairs. It’s a bar. There are soft drinks. A volume of notes rests invisibly in the beams. A strange man to himself has absconded. He has nothing to do. A team of players croon from the speakers. A nervous representative sails in from a drifted bus. A spaniel greets him. It scampers about as the umpire. its name is Baron Long. The dog has never spoken. It’s a library.
Angela Lansbury avails her open disposition; its her walk on. The strange man to himself knows who she is. The swimsuit she keeps has polystyrene floats. The man isn’t her water baby, though he claps. he surfaces with ease and not much depth. The walls heave in words that shave to advertise. The risk in depth is assured. A refugee camp postpones a serenade. A protest clumps the best together. The strange man’s links are permanently cast. He has a luminous door mat. The way he walks doesn’t spell it out; he misses out corners.
Actress, starlet Angela Lansbury has seventy five clones. The sleek ones rustle besides. She ordered them back on success. Plenty persue the guarantees. She works one in every seven months, then solidly for seventy. The man’s candour is deployed. He commodifies with shaven incredulity; topic of choice for a land mass. Over his din of unread books, freshest provision shakes the grey. Its chop up tunes for an outboard motor; its a way hay.