Oh, dear, public. Forays into poetic diction, things must be slow. Grey, too, despite the summer. But, short of nailing these words to the signs around campus that still direct you to a pedestrian overpath that no longer exists (a "bridge closure" only works if the bridge is still THERE), this remains my only public vent. An essential dump valve for when I run aground. I am the Condaleeza Rice Altair Voyager, and you (the remaining members of this expedition into the soul's Antartica after all the Oates popped out for a while and were some time) are all my toxic seashore.

I may invent a cocktail called the Metaphor Mixer. It will contain bleach and saffron. 

"Ah, well." as Seamus Heaney wrote concerning his own early poetry.
 That, and "potatoespotatoespotatoespotatoespotatoespotatoespotatoes".

I went to York carnival yesterday.

I've never seen so many golliwog dolls in my life.

Side by side with medallions and RAF pins

"Apres Moi Le Deluge" and and "Death Before Dishonour".

Robert Rankin and Andy McNabb.

"STOP! pain instantly"

"Have you tried the healing power of magnets?"

Later, the geek chic cliche clique paddle their fingers

on the television dust

clinging static

because we all need a place to live. 

Newspaper's 

"Give it 110 per cent and you're hired!"

becomes 

Give it l\l0 per cent and you're hired!

all too easily.