the state of world affairs from a 3rd floor window

I am watching a girl dressed in light green sweater, blue shorts, long black stockings; there is a necklace of some sort but her breasts are small, poor thing, and she watches her nails as her dirty white dog sniffs the grass in erratic circles; a pigeon is there too, circling. half dead with a tick of a brain and I am upstairs in my underwear. 3 day beard, pouring a beer and waiting for something literary or symphonic to happen: but they keep circling, circling, and a thin old man in his last winter rolls by pushed by a girl in catholic school dress; somewhere there ore the Alps, and ships ore now crossing the sea; there are piles and piles of H- and A-bombs, enough to blow up fifty worlds and Mars thrown in, but they keep circling, t. girl shifts buttocks, and the Hollywood Hills stand there, stand there full of drunks and insane People and much kissing in automobiles. but it's no good: que sera, sera: her dirty white dog simply will not shit, and with a last bite at her nails she, whiff much whirling of buttocks walks to her downstairs court trailed by her constipated dog (simply not worried), leaving me looking at a most unsymphonic Pigeon. Well, from the looks of things, relax: the bombs will never go off.