Gumbril looked through the railings at the profound darkness of the park. Vast it was and melancholy, of a string, here and there, of receding lights.


‘Terrible’, he said, and repeated the word several times.

‘Terrible, terrible’.

All the legless soldiers grinding barell-organs, all the hawkers of toys stamping their leaky boots in the gutters of the Strand; at the corner of Cursitor Street and Chancery Lane, the old woman with matches, for ever holding to her left eye a handkertchief as yellow and dirty as the winter fog. What was wrong with her eye?

He had never dared to look, but hurried past as though she were not there, or sometimes, when the fog was more than ordinarily cold and stifling paused for an instant with averted eyes to drop a brown coin into her tray of matches.


And then there were the murderers at eight o’clock, while one was savouring, almost with voluptuous consciousness, the final dream-haunted doze. There was the phthisical chairwoman who used to work at his father’s house, until she got too weak and died. There were the lovers who turned on the gas and the ruined shopkeepers jumping in front of trains.

Had one a right to be contented and well-fed, had one a right to one’s education and good taste, a right to knowledge and conversation and the leisurely complexities of love?

He looked once more through the railings at the park’s impenetrable, rustic night, at the lines of beaded lamps. He looked and remembered another night, years ago, during the war, when there were no lights in the park and the electric moons above the roadway were in almost total eclipse. He had walked up this street alone, full of melancholy emotions […].

He had been most horribly in love.


‘What did you think,’ he asked abruptly, ‘of Myra Viveash?’

[bus reading] : Aldous Huxley : Antic Hay



Oh my broken lamb
I worry when you cry
Baby’s gonna fetch ya
Horses in the sky

Though dead hands ring the garden
And these are violent times
And violence brings more violence
And liars bring more lies

Though we was born defeated
Worried, tired and scared
And monsters build mean robots
Launching rockets into the air

And the wealth of our nations
Fed on angel blood
And our cities shot with moneyed schemes
Built on twigs and mud

And our schools look like prisons
And our prisons look like malls
And downtown’s just a sick parade
Where no-one cares at all

And our hero’s all died crazy
Broken, poor or shot
Let’s celebrate their tragedy
And sanctify the loss

And manifest the daydream
Like those who fell before
And glorify our small attempts
And hate ourselves no more

Blow words between these sucker’s teeth
And bind these panicked hands
Lose your heart like a clumsy bell
Please be well

And all true love
Is the light
In my sister’s darling eyes

ASMZ | Horses In The Sky