Under the sun of Notting Hill

The megalithic sun shines on Notting Hill this noon.
Are longitudinal its waves, are
and reflex on the black taxis that become yellow: on the dry sidewalk the sirens dance naked savage and stoned, at certain distance the London Bridge is in flames under the sun, my friend.
This is CHAOS.


Sun, sun, sun, sun, sun, sun! The demolition crushed the "Mountain Grill" and the centaurs are on the Essex shore
they came to resurrect the demons of Carlyle and H.G. Wells, their Daimons, their Damons. And their Romanian prostitutes and their whiskey from Sligo that smells like 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.

The sol is not love.



AH! The masacre is here!



There is some honey in Tottenham-Galaad, sister?
No matter how bitter is your honey, sister, I love it.


The lacteal sun never ends in Notting Hill, and it shines, the lacteal sun.
the Slav Aphrodites offer their cunt, tits and anus to the obelisks of Notting Hill-Luxor and its pharaohs in black leather.


From the distance the House of Lords is on fire under the sun, my friend.


Fire, fire, fire, fire, fire, fire! All the harpies have flown toward Machpelah... but



"But if one day Notting Hill is invaded by the heavy stallions, we will escape under our Kennelly-heaviside-E sky
under the white night.
Toward Avalon, a 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 OverLords to come

darkly.