augury doggerel

Monday, September 23, 2002


The sort of man clich� would call a mountain, but who is less mons than manatee (no doubt complete with whirling propeller scars along his hairy back) negotiates something with a vinyl-coated skulker in the corner near the toilet. And I am observed � just now � with pen raised and eyes on them. So call this my last entry. The smothering armpit awaits; that, or the stoat's little poking knife.


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