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CITTA VIOLENTA

Monday, March 15, 2004






Back from long lunch near the Cutty Sark, through Mudchute and Heron Quays. Beneath white towers in a tin arcade. The yen has gone wrong and the tigers spit and curl. Blue dragonflies breed in a tropical foyer. There is glass everywhere. Aluminum and travertine. We are encased. From here to there and there. It's as beautiful here as there. The FTSE fell again. There was regime change and the end of Concorde. Don't stop spending!

Exxonmobile preparing to sharpen its succession claws.

Some are just adrift, simply. She got back under a red moon. She asked for time to spend her money. She covered a bad eye with make up. It looked like a picture. It was a clever thing to do.

Something's logged in there; something beyond enumeration, or betrayal. Something itching away and/or scratching a synapse. The nerves are hard to swallow. And I'm having fun now. I'm having fun now and I cannot swallow nerves. Forget. No. Never. Etc.

Citigroup faces new Brazilian twist.

The eye like a picture I picked up by accident: an Occidental sunset cut by me and a jet ski.

"You explain things now as they are, and it's not the way it used to be."

The docks are all flats and offices and all the sailors went to Tilbury!

On a Connex train going back to Eltham a couple of years ago to the warmth of her arms and lips and hit by a blue glow like a gash on the horizon which threw me off course: every one of these details is absolutely crucial, don't forget.

Desperate graphs and catastrophic events over a light breakfast of poached eggs, kippers or crepe.

She writes cheques ALL THE TIME! She knows for a fact that cheques are expensive and banks would like to phase them out in favour of debit cards. She still can't work out how to save VHS from DVD.

On Saturday the City is empty except for the wind that rubs against shop windows. Lloyds is blue desolation. The night before the bar teemed as we had remarked before my wine glass splintered over the floor. Girls had been bullied. I'd lost my nerve, twice. I'd held it, three times. I came back today because I'd lost something. Tonight I drive to Primrose Hill and toast my future.

EADS tips end to jet turbulence.

What dreams are these!

On the night flight to Stockholm I dive into mist and ice. I sleep short and sound. Keep an eye on fluctuations. Fed on well-being and the hollow drop beneath and still slim and leading three girls on a leash. The extreme precipice causes giddiness and I would describe it as intoxicating without even a push. From here to glass elevators and inhuman architecture. I have a taste for glory and it devours my history. Good.

Even such a small sleep spurs a dream. The lift shot through the shaft and crashed to the ground. I held on tight and survived. Not a single hair our of place.

Dow Jones slips too. Awake! Sue for peace. Take out a cut in coffee. Take a chunk of plastic fruit or lose a tooth. It's an easy choice. I'm in.

A life junket to obliterate every stupid promise I failed to make in youth and so claim no betrayal, hence ease of mind. It's as simple as that. Figures forget syntax and the sting of idealism.

Pumped full of skimmed milk, watching cholesterol. Enjoy everything immensely.

Pernod mulls next wave of consolidation.

Sharing Pimms in the summer months after work at a slutty little plaza behind Liverpool Street Station. It went all down your shirt and I was glad. Nice bra.

Back along the DLR, back from Bank and back again. Only future options. The course of war is a currency game.

A currency gain. Put a call through to Tokyo, and back to UBS. A junket ride to NY. 1285, Avenue of the Americas. Back again. Champagne on the plane. London City Airport. Kiss wrists. Sick to death of Brussels.

Titan rolling along to Aim.

When you first met me I was like you.

I liked you too.



And the arcs and the cloaked stars too and all of our buildings rising out of deep pits dug in thick clay and temples, forts and ruined walls. Fossils etched in rock and bones and skulls and tusks preserved in tar pits and peat bogs and the glacier scars of the Ice Age with tiny ravines and subvalleys cut through by the surface and dug in foundations like trenches and prophecy.

Oil stocks shine. Blue chips decline. Exporters gain as yen weakens.

When the money arrives we split it and devour champagne and crayfish at the top of Tower 42 to celebrate my birthday. Happy birthday! The night is woozy with delight: headlamps and office windows stud the city bowl like crushed crystal. Rain smears gauche light all over glass. The sky glows halogen orange. Breath is a stain.

A mutual fund for those with a penchant for punishment.

Sue for peace. The Gold Mines index.

Life delivered FREE by 7am.

Greed is the summation of learning and liberty here which makes the weak wane like plants in a window, sun-drenched and denied water. Death is painful and slow and life is fast and unfeeling. The air circulates through lungs with such speed that little spasms of pain shoot through your heart. Cover your head in a paper bag to end panic and you simply lose pace and your pulse stops. I offer this advice in kind and kindness.

My experience was loss but I kept up. That is, I kept ahead and lost what proved extraneous. Momentum amounts to amnesia.

Have to get outside to smell the rain.

You savvy?

posted by oc  # 4:44 AM

citta vecchio

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