the cocktails, Smith behaving younger than his age. Have a good mind to descend to the lake and skate by moonlight. Who was that figure zigzagging like lightning across the ice last night. Ah ha, you cocktailers. Ah ha.
And we move. Train lights dim. Through the pillars across this tunnel I see other trains. All late night travellers so sad and I suspect flatulent. Lamps lit on the tables. Wonder why we all bother coming and going. It's the money gentlemen. I travel for love. I go because I feel while perhaps passing in some strange hall, using some strange toilet I may find a moment of reverie. Or a touch or feel I've not had before. I am fond of stripping the bark from a branch and handling the sappy wood. And out under wild skies when spring is there I take down the dog wood flower and hold it.
Train comes up out of the dark. Swaying swiftly on the tracks past the windows of the underprivileged. Bunch of little thieving carol singers. Where was Miss Tomson going. Seeing someone she can fall in love with. Maybe a socialite she met through her brother. And they'll all be busy with hi, goodbye, hello, so long. She'll go slapping backs. Or go on her own where no one can slap hers. I have no right to object to an employee's private life but I know she would never do these things when she worked for me. Exposed now to the incredible vulgarity of these flashy rich.
Train tonight quite packed. With gentlemen, coats hung up and hats spotted with melting snow. Salary earners. That chap there is smug in his newspaper with pride in his firm. Until his services are no longer required. I have had profit never having had salary. Stacking the former away. Except when pressed to buy some contraption like the happy awaking machine. Leaking on me in a sinking dream. Give it to Matilda. Who sometimes I wonder if she is all right upstairs. What's this idea feel me. Just as I'm sitting in Merry Manse trying to get the whisky down to take the pressure off. She says feel me, go ahead. I expected her to say George any second. No doubt right now she's got the candles burning and my music on. I don't mean it's mine really. She can listen if she wants. Just makes me feel she couldn't possibly be keeping the place clean seduced with some of the tunes I've got which drive Matilda mad. One particular memory gives me shudders. Matilda on her back in the middle of the floor kicking her legs in the air. I said Good God, she's gripped by some malady. I thought give her something but I could see it was no use. I could never get close enough to her mouth. And I did a terrible thing because I was thinking treat shock with shock. And rushed to the closet and ripping it off the wall. I turned the extinguisher on her. She lay wiggling under the great creamy bubbling blanket and said man I just love that. Naturally I called a doctor. And we consulted there in silence ankle deep in foam. Seemingly there was some question as to who was the patient. As God help me, I happened to be in bathing costume.
In the station tonight nearly ten miles back I did not have the courage to go up and just say, Sally hello. And come let's tear a claw off some lobster. I know from experience that no woman refuses to eat seafood. And Miss Tomson with that tall frame to keep trim cannot lightly turn down the protein. There through the train window, a cemetery high on a hill, great white mausoleums, chilled shadowy crazy trees. In there too I have problems which tonight I shall not go into but get up and go to the bar. Down to the end of the train. All the boozers float back here. To sit quietly letting the mind run away.
Smith in the cocktail bar. All blue and smoke where he sat in a club chair as they would seem to have it. Tinkle, the ice rocking in the glasses. People sparkling. Lampposts go by outside. Under which streams the snow. I wear my long red underwear. Calmly under the trouser leg. Waiter in light blue. Only white thing in sight is his towel.
"Waiter, a cocktail."
"Of
And we move. Train lights dim. Through the pillars across this tunnel I see other trains. All late night travellers so sad and I suspect flatulent. Lamps lit on the tables. Wonder why we all bother coming and going. It's the money gentlemen. I travel for love. I go because I feel while perhaps passing in some strange hall, using some strange toilet I may find a moment of reverie. Or a touch or feel I've not had before. I am fond of stripping the bark from a branch and handling the sappy wood. And out under wild skies when spring is there I take down the dog wood flower and hold it.
Train comes up out of the dark. Swaying swiftly on the tracks past the windows of the underprivileged. Bunch of little thieving carol singers. Where was Miss Tomson going. Seeing someone she can fall in love with. Maybe a socialite she met through her brother. And they'll all be busy with hi, goodbye, hello, so long. She'll go slapping backs. Or go on her own where no one can slap hers. I have no right to object to an employee's private life but I know she would never do these things when she worked for me. Exposed now to the incredible vulgarity of these flashy rich.
Train tonight quite packed. With gentlemen, coats hung up and hats spotted with melting snow. Salary earners. That chap there is smug in his newspaper with pride in his firm. Until his services are no longer required. I have had profit never having had salary. Stacking the former away. Except when pressed to buy some contraption like the happy awaking machine. Leaking on me in a sinking dream. Give it to Matilda. Who sometimes I wonder if she is all right upstairs. What's this idea feel me. Just as I'm sitting in Merry Manse trying to get the whisky down to take the pressure off. She says feel me, go ahead. I expected her to say George any second. No doubt right now she's got the candles burning and my music on. I don't mean it's mine really. She can listen if she wants. Just makes me feel she couldn't possibly be keeping the place clean seduced with some of the tunes I've got which drive Matilda mad. One particular memory gives me shudders. Matilda on her back in the middle of the floor kicking her legs in the air. I said Good God, she's gripped by some malady. I thought give her something but I could see it was no use. I could never get close enough to her mouth. And I did a terrible thing because I was thinking treat shock with shock. And rushed to the closet and ripping it off the wall. I turned the extinguisher on her. She lay wiggling under the great creamy bubbling blanket and said man I just love that. Naturally I called a doctor. And we consulted there in silence ankle deep in foam. Seemingly there was some question as to who was the patient. As God help me, I happened to be in bathing costume.
In the station tonight nearly ten miles back I did not have the courage to go up and just say, Sally hello. And come let's tear a claw off some lobster. I know from experience that no woman refuses to eat seafood. And Miss Tomson with that tall frame to keep trim cannot lightly turn down the protein. There through the train window, a cemetery high on a hill, great white mausoleums, chilled shadowy crazy trees. In there too I have problems which tonight I shall not go into but get up and go to the bar. Down to the end of the train. All the boozers float back here. To sit quietly letting the mind run away.
Smith in the cocktail bar. All blue and smoke where he sat in a club chair as they would seem to have it. Tinkle, the ice rocking in the glasses. People sparkling. Lampposts go by outside. Under which streams the snow. I wear my long red underwear. Calmly under the trouser leg. Waiter in light blue. Only white thing in sight is his towel.
"Waiter, a cocktail."
"Of
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