gri_2003_m_46_b01_f06_009
- Max. dissimilarity: 1.0
- Mean dissimilarity: 0.405
- Image votes: 0.0
Transcribers
- 65325797 - armrha
- 65333403 - horsetcher
- 65338679 - not-logged-in-a50563bca5ec606c5a98
- 65343772 - not-logged-in-7a0913b29984e7409fcd
- WINNER - 65373949 - jaf490
- 65680637 - rb38mk
- 65689843 - tinkapuppy
- 65743227 - srasg56
- 65843961 - not-logged-in-e546c5ed244d02c920c3
- 65914552 - mar15ted
- 65923584 - gailkoelker
65325797 - armrha
(london) Red paint grinding through Kenington.The cricket ball sun plops into the sump.
Sweating as the thunder bumps
Like sculpture in the rhododendrons
Shapeless purple folk look out
As a stain walks down the street
I wish there was a gun beneath my pillow
Only a window and the curtains
Giving softly as a willow
(It is the sky of a city, it has stars)
Tired but I don't want to sleep
Listen to the aeolian stir of ears
The curtains give a ball of hair
Blows under th ebed and there is
A scribble of flowers and smudges of smoke.
Blue prongs of flame jump from the ring
And tremble like ferns fidgeted by wind
Water shudders in the cistern.
(pett) Like escalators coming in and in
The dawn waves hit shore hit shore
A silver tube of paint lies like a fish
Beside a window with a country view
Across the field where tides of wind
Come in to break among the orchard
Beyond the noncommittal sundial
Nude to the waist a hero scythes
While Philomel stutters in the trees
Inscrutably sweet she charms the day
With liquid hornpipes and the grass
Shivers and falls the silver edge
Dew falls from a purple sheath
Among white nodules of wild strawberry
I reflected on the past of nightingales
Mourning perhaps us with a silver tear
her music was sugar in the dark green day
Like jewels in a Tintoretto garden
Remembering some pastoral themes:
Image the city in this viscous sump
Where rotting branches throb and ferns shrivel,
Colin is busy as a Book of Hours,
Adam's decapitated head sinks in the flowers
Slashes by petals his hair a gold font
Twitching panting branded sheep populate a hill
The slim fox vanishes in a tent of grass
The first bat twangs from a contorted oak
Above a clogged pond, hoofed cake, and patted.
(red paint-
a tram)
(sump - Thames)
(sump in Reddy gardens)
65333403 - horsetcher
65338679 - not-logged-in-a50563bca5ec606c5a98
65343772 - not-logged-in-7a0913b29984e7409fcd
Red paint grinding through KensingtonThe cricket ball sun plops into the sump.
Sweating as the thunder humps
Like sculpture in the rhododenrons
Shapeless purple folk look out
As a stain walks down the Street.
I wish there was a gun beneath my pillow
Only a window and the curtains
Giving softly as a willow
(It is the sky of a city, it has stars)
Tired but I don't want to sleep
Listen to the aeolian stir of cars
The curtains give and a ball of hair
Blows under the bed and there is
A scribble of flowers and smudges of smoke.
Blue prongs of flame jump from the ring
And tremble like ferns fidgetted by wind
Water shudders in the sistern.
(pett)- Like escalators coming in and in
The dawn waves hit shore hit shore
A silver tube of paint lies like a fish
Beside a window with a country view
Across the fields where tides of wind
Come in to break among the orchard
Beyond the non-committal sundial
Nude to the waist a hero scythes
While Philomel stutters in the trees
Inscrutably sweet she charms the day
With liquid hornpipes and the grass
Shivers and falls to the silver edge
Dew falls from a purple sheath
Among white nodules of wild strawberry.
I reflected on the past of nightingales
Mourning perhaps us with a silver tear
Her music was sugar in the dark green day
Like jewels in a Tintoretto garden
Remembering some pastoral themes:
Image the city in this viscous sump
Where trotting branches throb and ferns shrivel,
Colin is busy as a Book of Hours,
Adam's decapitated head sinks in flowers
Slashed by petals his hear a gold font
Twitching panting branded sheep populate a hill
The slim fox vanishes in a tent of grass
The first bat twangs from a contorted oak
Above a clogged pond, hoofed caked and patted.
WINNER - 65373949 - jaf490
(London) Red paint grinding through KeningtonThe cricket ball sun plops into the sump.
Sweating as the thunder bumps
Like sculpture in the rhododendrons
Shapeless purple folk look out
As a stain walks down the street
I wish there was a gun beneath my pillow
Only a window and the curtains
Giving softly as a willow
(It is the sky of a city, it has stars)
Tired but I don't want to sleep
Listen to the aeolian stir of cars
The curtains give and a ball of hair
Blows under the bed and there is
A scribble of flowers and smudges of smoke.
Blue prongs of flame jump from the ring
And tremble like ferns fidgeted by wind
Water shudders in the cistern.
(pett)-Like escalators coming in and in
The dawn waves hit shore hit shore
A silver tube of paint lies like a fish
Beside a window with a country view
Across the fields where tides of wind
Come in to break among the orchard
Beyond the non-committal sundial
Nude to the waist a hero scythes
While Philomel stutters in the trees
Inscrutably sweet she charms the day
With liquid hornpipes and the grass
Shivers and falls to the silver edge
Dew falls from a purple sheath
Among white nodules of wild strawberry.
I reflected on the past of nightingales
Mourning perhaps us with a silver tear
Her music was sugar in the dark green day
Like jewels in a Tintoretto garden
Remembering some pastoral themes:
Image the city in this viscous sump
Where rotting branches throb and ferns shrivel,
Colin is busy as a Book of Hours,
Adam's decapitated head sinks in flowers
Slashed by petals his hair a gold font
Twitching panting branded sheep populate a hill
The slim fox vanishes in a tent of grass
The first bat twangs from a contorted oak
Above a clogged pond, hoofed cakes and patted.
7-7-48
(red paint - a train)
(sump - Thames)
(sump in Rectory garden)
65680637 - rb38mk
1 [7-7-48](London) Red paint grinding through Kenington
The cricket ball sun plops into the sump.
Sweating as the thunder bumps
Like sculpture in the rhododendrons
Shapeless purple folk look out
as a stain walks down the street
I wish there was a gun beneath my pillow
Only a window and the curtains
Giving softly as a willow
(It is the sky of a city, it has stars)
Tired but I don't want to sleep
Listen to the Aeolian stir of cars
The curtains give and a ball of hair
Blows under the bed and there is
a scribble of flowers and smudges of smoke.
Blue prongs of flame jump from the ring
And tremble like ferns fidgeted by wind
Water shudders in the cistern.
(pett) - Like escalators coming in and in
The dawn waves hit shore hit shore
A silver tube of paint lies like a fish
Beside a window with a country view
Across the fields where tides of wind
Come in to break among the orchard
Beyond the non-committal sundial
Nude to the waist a hero scythes
While Philomel stutters in the trees
Inscrutably sweet she charms the day
With liquid hornpipes and the grass
Shivers and falls to the edge
Dew falls from a purple sheath
Among white nodules of wild strawberry
I reflected on the past of nightingales
Mourning perhaps us with a silver tear
Her music was sugar in the dark green day
Like jewels in Tintoretto garden
Remembering some pastoral themes
Image the city is the viscous sump
Where rotting branches throb and ferns shrivel,
Colin is busy as a Book of Hours,
Adams decapitated head sinks in flowers
Slashed by petals his hair a gold font
Twitching panting branded sheep populate a hill
The slim fox vanished in a tent of grass
The first bat twangs from a contorted oak
Above a clogged pond, hoofed caked and patted .
(red paint - train)
(sump =Thomas)
(sump in Rectory garden)
65689843 - tinkapuppy
-1- [7-7-48]Red paint grinding through Kenington
The cricket ball sun plops into the sump.
Sweating as the thunder bumps
Like sculpture in the rhododendrons
Shapeless purple folk look out
As a stain walks down the street
I wish there was a gun beneath my pillow
Only a window and the curtains
Giving softly as a willow
(It is the sky of a city, it has stars)
Tired but I don't want to sleep
Listen to the aeolian stir of cars
The curtains give and a ball of hair
Blows under the bed and there is
A scribble of flowers and smudges of smoke.
Blue prongs of flame jump from the ring
And tremble like ferns fidgetted by wind
Water shudders in the cistern.
Like escalators coming in and in
The dawn waves hit shore hit shore
A silver tube of paint lies like a fish
Beside a window with a country view
Across the fields where tides of wind
Come in to break among the orchard
Beyond the non-commital sundial
Nude to the waist a hero scythes
While Philomel stutters in the trees
Inscrutably sweet she charms the day
With liquid hornpipes and the grass
Shivers and falls to the silver edge
Dew falls from a purple sheath
Among white nodules of wild strawberry.
I reflected on the past of nightingales
Mourning perhaps us with a silver tear
Her music was sugar in the dark green day
Like jewels in a Tintoretto garden
Remembering some pastoral themes:
Image the city in this viscous sump
Where rotting branches throb and ferns shrivel,
Colin is busy as a Book of Hours,
Adam's decapitated head sinks in flowers
Slashed by petals his hair a gold font
Twitching panting branded sheep populate a hill
The slim fox vanishes in a tent of grass
The first bat twangs from a contorted oak
Above a clogged pond, hoofed caked and patted.
(Red paint - a tram)
(Sump - Thames)
(London)
(Pett)
(Sump in Rectory garden)
65743227 - srasg56
[7-7-48](red paint - a train)
(sump - Thames)
-1-
(London) Red paint grinding through Kennington
The cricket ball sun plops into the sump.
Sweating as the thunder bumps
Like sculpture in the rhodedendrons
Shapeless purple folk look out
As a stain walks down the street
I wish there was a gun beneath my pillow
Only a window and the curtains
Giving softly as a willow
(It is the sky of a city, it has stars)
Tired but I dont want to sleep
Listen to the aeolian stir of cars.
The curtains give and a ball of hair
Blows under the bed and there is
A scribble of flowers and smudges of smoke.
Blue prongs of flame jump from the ring
And tremble like ferns fidgeted by wind
Water shudders in the cistern.
(pett)-Like escalators coming in and in
The dawn waves hit shore hit shore
A silver tube of paint lies like a fish
Beside a window with a country view
Across the fields where tides of wind
Come in to break among the orchard
Beyond the non-committal sundial
Nude to the waist a hero scythes
While Philomel stutters in the trees
Inscrutably sweet she charms the day
With liquid hornpipes and the grass
Shivers and falls to the silver edge
Dew falls from a purple sheath
Among white nodules of wild strawberry.
I reflected on the past of nightingales
Mourning perhaps us with a silver tear
Her music was sugar in the dark green day
Like jewels in a Tintoretto garden
(sump in Rectory garden)
Remembering some pastoral themes:
Image the city in this viscous sump
Where rotting branches throb and ferns shrivel,
Colin is busy as a Book of Hours,
Adam's decapitated head sinks in flowers
Slashed by petals his hair a gold font
Twitching panting branded sheep populate a hill
The slim fox vanishes in a tent of grass
The first bat twangs from a contorted oak
Above a clogged pond, hoofed caked and patted.
65843961 - not-logged-in-e546c5ed244d02c920c3
Red paint grinding through KeningtonThe cricket ball sun plops into the sump.
Sweating as the thunder bumps
Like sculpture in the rhododendrons
Shapeless purple folk look out
As a strain walks down the street
I wish there was a gun beneath my pillow
Only a window and the curtains
Giving softly as a willow
(It is the sky of a city, it has stars)
Tired but I don't want to sleep
Listen to the aeolian stir of cars
The curtains give and a ball of hair
Blows under the bed and there is
A scribble of flowers and smudges of smoke.
Blue prongs of flame jump from the ring
And tremble like ferns fidgeted by wind
Water shudders in the cistern.
Like escalators coming in and in
The dawn waves hit shore hit shore
A sliver tube of paint lies like a fish
Beside a windows with a country view
Across the fields where tides of wind
Cone in to break among the orchard
Beyond the non-committal sundial
Nude to the waist a hero scythes
While Philomel stutters in the trees
Inscrutably sweet she charms the day
With liquid hornpipes and the grass
Shivers and falls to the silver edge
Dew falls from a purple sheath
Among white nodules of wild strawberry.
I reflected on the past of nightingales
Mourning perhaps us with a silver tear
Her music was sugar in the dark green day
Like jewels in a Tintoretto garden
65914552 - mar15ted
-1- [7-7-48] (London) (red paint - a train) ( - Thames)Red paint grinding through Kensington The cricket ball sun plops into the sump. Sweating as the thunder bumps Like sculpture in the rhododendrons Shapeless purple folk look out As a stain walks down the street
I wish there was a gun beneath my pillow Only a window and the curtains Giving softly as a willow (It is the sky of a city, it has stars) Tired but I don't want to sleep Listen to the Aeolian stir of cars The curtains give and a ball of hair Blows under the bed and there is A scribble of flowers and smudges of smoke. Blue prongs of flame jump from the ring And tremble like ferns fidgeted by wind Water shudders in the cistern. (Pett) - Like escalators coming in and in The dawn waves hit shore hit shore A sil ver tube of paint lies like a fish Beside a window with a country view Across the fields where tides of wind Come in to break among the orchard Beyond the non-committal sundial Nude to the waist a hero scythes While Philomel stutters in the trees Inscrutably sweet she charms the day With liquid hornpipes and the grass Shivers and falls to the silver edge Dew falls from a purple sheath Among white nodules of wild strawberry. I reflected on the past of nightingales Mourning perhaps us with a silver tear Her music was sugar in the dark green day Like jewels in a Tintoretto garden Remembering some pastoral themes: Image the city in this viscous sump Where rotting branches throb and ferns shrivel, Colin is busy as a Book of Hours, Adam's decapitated head sinks in flowers Slashed by petals his hair a gold font Twitching panting branded sheep populate a hill The slim fox vanishes in a tent of grass The first bat twangs from a contorted oak Above a clogged pond, hoofed caked and patted. (sump in rectory garden)
65923584 - gailkoelker
-1- [7-7-48](London) Red paint grinding through Kenington
The cricket ball sun plops into the sump. Sweating as the thunder bumps like sculpture in the rhododendrons Shapeless purple folk look out As a stain walks down the street
I wish there was a gun beneath my pillow Only a window and the curtains Giving softly as a willow (It is the sky of a city, it has stars) Tired but I don't want to sleep Listen to the Aeolian stir of ears
The curtains give and a ball of hair Blows under the bed and there is A scribble of flowers and smudges of smoke. Blue prongs of flame jump from the ring And tremble like ferns fidgeted by wind Water shudders in the cistern.
(pett) Like escalators coming in and in The dawn waves hit shore hit shore A silver tube of paint lies like a fish Beside a window with a country view Across the fields where tides of wind Come in to break among the orchard Beyond the non-committal sundial Nude to the waist a hero scythes While Philomel stutters in the trees Inscrutably sweet she charms the day With liquid hornpipes and the grass Shivers and falls to the silver edge Dew falls from a purple sheath Among white nodules of wild strawberry. I reflected on the past of nightingales Mourning perhaps us with a silver tear Her music was sugar in the dark green day Like jewels in a Tintoretto garden Remembering some pastoral themes: Image the city in this viscous sump Where rotting branches throb and ferns shrivel, Colin is busy as a Book of Hours, Adam's decapitated head sinks in flowers Slashed by petals his hair a gold font Twitching panting branded sheep populate a hill The slim fox vanishes in a tent of grass The first bat twangs from a contorted oak Above a clogged pond, hoofed caked and patted.
Margin notes: (red paint-a train) (sump-Thames) (sump in rectory garden)