Thoughts from London to Newport VIII

It was, eye can concede,
Perhaps definitely the first thyme that I had shared a carriage with a voluptuous,
                        though portly porn star;
Well, at least she wore the attire from what eye could read,
Dostoevsky
Ravished by the studious type, with jet black hair and jet black intent:
Shabby clothes, disorganised manner, head crammed with art and philosophy
I shouldn’t wonder,
But I do.
Does he have answers more than me?
Does he perceive what my myopic I’s cannot see?
A synaptic leap, at the speed of thought and electron lightly,
Back to porn.
Nipples raised, erect, alive, defying taut tee
A primal enticement or a bodily reaction to the sudden chill?
Must not stare, must beat off the caveman that shares my selfish jeans.
Quickly
Back to Fyodor.
But he’s been replaced by Michael Moore,
Fucking
Florida
again!
Questions, alternative histories, good old American conspiracies,
On paper and on track.