The MP and his wife were guided up the stairs of the hotel by a young Italian porter. He informed them that they were too late for lunch but if they wished a platter of cold sandwiches could be sent up.
The MP grumbled that the service in Europe is no better than in Torquay, and normally his wife would have apologised for this, only she saw that the young man did not speak English well enough to discern the dialectic mumblings of a gruff Yorkshireman whose pipe was always stuck in his mouth.
The grass between my toes, the stars above my head. These vanish as the stone asserts itself, and I am left without an imp, or elf, or any thing they said I owned, to which I took myself, and honed the spells unheard by Christian dead. A chair, they said, was mine at secret shows.
They saw me in the woods, in conversation with a local wife at work with axe and rope. They saw me kiss her on the mouth, a hope between us like Sodom: a stain on all of Christendom.
The name of treachery is Blood. The senators beneath their desks, cowering like schoolchildren from the atomic bomb, as men and women painted, fierce, throng the offices of law. And leading them from those same offices, Blood stands and licks his hands, and grins, his eyes not evil but vacant of any moral sense, or sense at all. The Devil did not murder you. You were murdered by The Fool.
I dreamt of a world in pitch. air churning in the fields and between the trees. What yields you would not wish to know, traps in the forest floor and assailants concealed behind trees. The light revealed is charming, then, more so than magic, or science. I walked towards it in the dream and saw a single house of elegant design, a party in the living room, the room itself living. A music floats like smoke from a newly baked pie towards a cartoon catís nostrils. When I reach the door Iím admitted, cannot believe my...
But God will shoot at them with an arrow; Suddenly they will be wounded. - Psalm 64
I am thirty this July. Some thing inside me flattens out and scents the humours as they churn just like a dryer sheet. Iím not, nor will I ever be, fully sane and sound. But I can greet the Furies like a friend who will not bear his throat to harridans, at least. I try to say what Kings would at a feast. That on the hill the heathen sits and will arrive with sword and bow, but just like you he eats and shits, and...
George Blake (1922 to December 26th, 2020) was a spy with Britain's secret intelligence, who worked as a double agent for the Soviet Union. He has been described as having caused more deaths of British spies than any other "traitor" of the period. (He estimated his death tally at about 400.) He was exposed, served a brief period in a British jail, escaped, and fled to Russia, where he spent the rest of his life.
I couldn't dig up all the guilt (you no doubt didn't feel), not because of loyalty to Queen and country, policy, nor any dull, bladed concept we used ...