The megalithic sun shines on Notting Hill this noon.
Are longitudinal its waves that make reflex on the black taxis that become yellow: on the dry sidewalk the sirens dance naked savage and stoned in front of 12 arabs and a bobby with a lumberjack.
From the distance the London bridge's in flames under the sun, my friend.
This is CHAOS.
Sun, sun, sun, sun, sun, sun! The demolition crushed down the "Mountain grill" and the centaurs are on the Essex shores; they came to resurrect the demons of Carlyle and H.G. Wells, their Daimons. And their welsh prostitutes and their whiskey from Sligo that smells like a STORM OF FIRE from Atlantia.
What's wrong with than animal, the sun, shining on Notting Hill?
What's wrong with that green lion, the sol?
The sol is love.
AH! The masacre is on!
Let's call for the King David of Llandudno and his concubines/
And for Scotland Yard and its asinines/
...There's honey in Tottenham, sister?
No matter how bitter is your miel, sister; i love it...
The lacteal sun never ends in Notting Hill and it shines.
the slav Aphrodites offer their cunt, tits and anus to the obelisks of Notting Hill-Luxor and its pharaohs in black sado-leather.
From the distance the House of Lords is on fire under the sun, my friend.
Fire, fire, fire, fire, fire, fire! Fire and chaos!
All the harpies have flown to Machpelah...but.
...But if one day Notting Hill falls in siege by the stallions-dinosaurs, we'll escape under our Kennelly-heaviside-E sky; under the white night, baby...
Towards Avalon; our new Arcadia, Huxleyopolis or Aristotleia.
...Meanwhile, the sol keeps on shining over the sad machines of Chesterton, and over my love.
Waiting for the day of the Lords to come; darkly...
