Sacred Wagons Of Men's Dreams

The sun is shining on the car lot. Silver grey rows with intermittent metallic prussian blues and smears of lurid reds glint in its low winter rays . The clouds scud above and are beautiful today. White puffed towers with dark grey undersides. Tiny planes pierce the blue above like suture lines. Distant people bound for faraway places - other worlds. The lot was occupied once by a red brick church hall that was used as a

Dead Fingers Talk

Sometimes I think that Stockwell has a special affinity with the strato cummulus... that is the low lying grey cover of cloud that is synonymous with misery and suicide. The dark winter months hang heavy on the concrete fascades and crippled trees that gesticulate black hands at the passing traffic. Puts me in mind of a song from the twenties -I think it was called Black Sunday but it precipitated many suicides, also on such a grey day as this Sylvia Plath stuck her head in the oven and gave up the ghost apparently. For my own part I