Visits to Shrewsbury (PGL part two)

August 2011

Get a taxi

545454, with Oldham old-boy

Dropping a left into Jack’s Deli
to cut my proverbial’s too sharply on Heston’s knife
By default so bloody: so see sore for now
And bleeding profusely while seller sells
Bang-Olufsen twisting hearted the sickly sweet sound 
‘£925 for a iPod dock’, but don’t demonstrate with Jay; not Jay!
I’m now chilling bank-side of the Severn
Gently swaying and George V in suspense.

Shrewsbury: the chronology between coming is returning sweet.
With a mouth chocked full of Wrekin Blue synaesthesia
Spiced up with an aged chorizo and some braesola to eat.
And plenty silences slumbers while quarried younger rocks yearn
To embrace like beautiful ripe corn and handsome hard quern.
And the rotund church glows bright against the seasonal blink

Or claps to signal this grassed throne below assured blue
Oh mind be also vacant to laps, thighs and painted toes.
But welcome precious, slightly sighing, simple anaesthesia.

Freedom in life to share with blindly seeing Jess
I scream to say I see a civitas and buy; must buy.
Cross we the threshold Appleyard’s.
Comte, Wild Boar Salami and Torta de Aceite
Our gate brings us upon a vestibule looking out
On the roof of the coach and horses; catching sun.

A Thatcher’s farmhouse cider ready both.
In orange Somerset and cloudy sooth
She follows where I wend unusual
Herb and multivitamins Herbarium, Wye Cop.
List of needs: shoes and full tube toothpaste; still.
Pau D’arco for pleasure, pasture and ease.
Yet Shrewsbury anywhere I can’t find finery
Essential missing amongst spires and bridges.
Keeping to the common route.
A mammoth construction out of quarry
Rejects those who coagulate to slumber
Has reduced to nowt those who pass by in-time.
I digest a KFC after supping Stowford Press
Herb belly densely waits supine.
And posh possessed girls and boys leave me hearing
Heavy in my heart an accent less nonsense more them and us.
No brains between them.
Heaving my sleep deprived mind
flies to buzz while wasps to chase my day-dream away.
The sky hangs for Lucy to appear.
This is so unlikely and the sun glowers disappointment at me.
‘Take your painkillers, my friend’ hails the wordy Cox
Core speaks from his five to a bag of none.
So so wearily I Co-codamol and dance into the Severn.

What I am doing at PGL is perfect for late teens without any focus, but not for a thirty-something with myopia . I continue to traipse from Buzzard room B to The Crazy Noose(moose). It dangles in front of me. I have lost any desire I once had to parley bright with the early twenty-somethings Gavin and Mark and mature Jonathan Ogdon has aspirated. I’ve stopped caring and carrying on with any of the girls (all too young and disappointingly vacant eyed). And I’m thinking I must be wasting all my energy and money going to meet Vicky in Cambridge on the 18th; I wish it were in another me.

So what in fucks name am I doing here? Was it the threat of another heavy hearted retreat to Wetherby? I had a month in which to say see you later PGL. But I accepted the necessity of money over a trillion arguments against. I only have 5 weeks left. Then what? What will change? Will I suddenly discover what I am for? What am I for…what made me choose 3 months trapped here? Have I lost my mind.

Finally I feel like I have vanished sat in the Quarry, Shrewsbury.

I suppose that if I can handle it for 5 more turgid weeks in Hell will I manage to get to Berlin, Switzerland or somewhere else? It is only 5 weeks!

I have vanished, but only temporarily?



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