Nearly all over for the noughties.   Did we see

what we thought we saw?   Or make use of the

proceeds?   I'm still in a frenzy, looking for the

main stuff.   Both the variety and the depth, as

illustrated, not too succinctly, in the handbook.

Albeit on a severely reduced scale.   You touch


the screen and monitor what passes for global

tapestry.   Just skip and shuffle.   If we're all a

bit groggy on arrival, we can take a weekender

in the greenhouse, pot up a few of those dark-

eyed pansies.   Or switch off the lights.   What

name, though, could we possibly use for a one-


off silhouette?   An allday one at that.   It's too

easy criticising designers, but a quintessential

experience can be safely left to speak for itself.

Pile on the agony.   The soft and chunky.   For

those with outsize shoulders, go for the now-

thing: distortion, starting from the top.   That


way, you concentrate the carbon and layer the

print.   Nothing like briefings for shrinking the

budget: just look on freelance sensitivity as an

industry in itself.   Outwards and upwards, 1m

to the arts!   Sightseers, as we know, are fine

and not likely to problematise statistics for the


elderly, e.g. how many of those can we expect

scaling fences, or operating a cartel?   Trans-

border discipline has it all to do.   But I can't

see where this is going?   For every change in

the way we do things, stars migrate.   Appetite

suppressants may well be something to watch.








By any reckoning, it was tantamount to taking

liberties with design.   An alarmist manifesto or

a graceless exhibition of ships in bottles would

have occasioned a likelier turnout.   Witness all

the glumness round the place, never mind the


odd expression on the faces of those half-arsed

cherubs some weekender reckoned divine.   I'm

beginning to feel sorry for guides left dozing in

doorways.   Visitations forever round the corner,

shadows inhabiting basements.   Nothing in situ.


Realia still waiting for their fix.   Who's on the

right side of mercy: either you get the balance

or you don't?   At the minute, it's every quasi-

revolutionary pocketing change.   You don't see

much for the dust!   Myself, I'd make a serious


claim for compensation, but there's always life

in the dog.   Facsimile forcefields and a distrait

scholar have so much in common: just doing

what they have to, just enough, and forget the

disarray.   If they feel, I feel: that is how it is.


Besides, who'll escape a mannerist approach to

life in the faintly round?   Duration, it's clear,

will stake a nice, juicy claim.   But I'll not wait

up and nor should you.   It's late, I'm dawdling.

Let's skip the clear-out.   A dog needs to walk.








Round One went to the grandmaster.   Likewise,

the field.   What had become of the elite squad,

though, nobody quite knew: they were last seen

at immigration switching sides.   Quantum has a

thing about balancing forces that, given a soft

going, may catch even the best of us off guard.


Do quests lead, inexorably, to the momentous

reunion?   You can just as easily die in custody.

Looking through bars is as sympathetic to life

change as being presented with your very own

book of spells.   Up-to-date suggestions always

welcome ­ if accompanied by right scholarship.


A troubled heroine and a dealer in manuscripts

make good bedfellows high in the tower.   They

can watch such encounters with several degrees

of equanimity.   Any trafficking in the forbidden

leaves a bitter taste, but shock exploits such as

banking with bankers can only end in tears.   It


is a natural thing, acquiring relics (holy or not),

and I'm not for veiling truth especially when

I get the wink.   The way things are, I'll make a

natural replacement for the next spent fuse.   It

takes the brightest colours saving the day, but

what a day that last move, battling our best.



     Peter Dent 2009