Wetherby is a camp for the dying and the dead. There are old people and dangerously ill people too everywhere on a Thursday. It’s that midmorning time of day and a Thursday market day too, but it’s another symbol of the death of Wetherby. In the previous allegory metaphor there were just a few atoms left circling dying and now I see the remnants of galaxies.

Somewhere someone is being bombed indiscriminately and somewhere 3 media darlings are fanning another media dreadful: Fern! We’re bombing the wrong people.

Not sure what this means: I’ve been on the X98 the last couple, three days and it’s half empty from Wetherby (where it was full before I moved back to Leeds). I postulate it is a sign of the times: mass unemployment reduces the footfall on public transport: this in turn will reduce the overall income of this public function and the knock on effect will be higher price, followed by still lower footfall. This ain’t over yet!

Even the red bus cafe is vanished; oh Wetherby what have you become?

Just managed 6 or 7 Deerhunter songs before I had to get a taxi to meet the bus to Wetherby. They were late on: 30 minutes. Very annoying. I don’t know the cause so I better not totally tantrum. What I heard was very good, but I realise it’s not somewhere to meet kindred spirits. Bradford Cox is wafer thin; mint thin. But obviously a genius. One of the nest songs on halcyon is not sung by him though.

In the bowels of the Marriott no one ever hears you scream.
Gucci init, LV init or emptiness init?
Remember there is a reason for stepping back from the brink.
Remember to decide.
You decide. I decide. It’s ours to decide.
I don’t want to die without at-least making decisions about me: ones that appease me; fuck all the rest.

I am in the guilded hall with fat lasses eating scones and lashings of cramming cream. Ensconced between columns of marble they scrape butter pleasure, jam and sup tea from chipped porcelain. Synchronized hand wiping on white paper napkin. Mechanical short locks and dangling ear stand out. Glasses, bespoken spectacles, glitter of ringed fingers and wagging pen. Autobahn in the sun. The fun fun fun.

Office girls get up and dress like whores.
Office gentlemen dress like confirming priests.
Some of them drag on fag ends in longing for destiny
Some of them talk to their handsets like it’s war.
There is a faux friendship here
And blank impotent rage
When in years gone bye nine bells would toll
The reality of slavish coil doesn’t depend on whistles.
Fake leather elbows on a tweed coat: oh is that the best you can do?
Drag them away one by one and shoot the lot.
Put them on the east coast cattle truck to be boiled down to tallow.

Good morning good morning
I readied myself to catch a train
After accosted I was at 4am
By usual plywood thin walls
Oh 97 so much to answer for
So here am sat head in lap
8am to Birmingham New Street
When does it become old?
Let’s get on to our destination.
On time pips and away.


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