the tiles. Astrid knew a moment of true happiness. >My God! She deserved that, that hussy!<< Astrid purred: »Poul, you must go at once.<< >>What? To Dorrit?< Poul was being rather slow.

»No, you fool. To those menl<

Poul thought his wife must have lost her mind. »Good heavens, dear! What am I to say to them?<

Astrid thought quickly. »Go first to the kiosk and buy four lottery tickets, then ring at their door and pretend you are a door-to-door salesman.< >You can't possibly mean that!<

>>Just hurry, dearl<<

Pour went off, and Astrid opened the window the better to hear. While her husband was in the kiosk, little Mrs. Olsen from Number One came to borrow some cream, but left empty-handed and shaken, and the grocer's feminine son fared no better, much to Astrid's surprice. He was known as Desdemona of Portugal, but now it did not help him that he insisted that he represented the Society for the Preservation of Eye Glasses in the Eastern Territories. It seemed to her that a whole queue was forming on the road.

Pour at last arrived with his four lottery tickets. He sent her a helpless glance and knocked timidly on the door. She could have strangled him. This was not the way to do things.

The young man opened the door, and Astrid thought she would die of sheer

excitement.

No, thank you, the young man said, placed a coin in Poul's hand, and closed the door. Poul shufled off, and back in his own quarters, sat wordlessly down, ooking rather sick.

A deafening silence reigned in the house until lunch when, sufficiently recouperated to wish to console his wife, but not psychologically at his best, he bserved while helping himself generously to some Italian salad: »Well, at least we have supported the Bee Breeders' Choir by buying their lottery tickets.<< This proved to much for Astrid.

>>Wher all is said ard done, those two are just downright perverse,< she exriaimed furiously. »After lunch, I am going to see Mrs. Vinkelhorn in Number Thirteen. I am going to warn her that her two little boys are in appalling danger.<< "Durrit, back from her expedition, tore her eyelashes off, and was too upset to put them back in the plastic box.

>Damn him!<< che thought angrily. While changing into her house coat, she wondered what could be done to annoy those loathsome characters. In the end, she decided or buying some weed seeds to sow on their lawn in the dark of night. As she was hanging her stole into the wardrobe, it caught a peg and was torn.

>They are just degenerate,« she shrieked, and stamped on the remains of the 'ilac-coloured tulle.

When Frank returned that evening and found his wife writing furious letters to the press, denouncing all inverts and suggesting that the lot of them ought to be

sent to Siberia, he was glad that he had kept his boarding school affairs to himself. DAVID ST.CYR

Commentary after Violence

I see the pain is wrir kied Like a fr wn; my eyes rotate Around the hollow space that Housed your breast, and now

I see behind your shell your Carnival of arms and legs.

The wonder 's you worked so Well; out of twisted bits The jellied eel effect does Nut suggest your ambiguity of Flesh Your impaled smile I see More sinister dead than real.

I could not love you

when' knew

You well, but then I never Guessed you were merely composed

Of this. If I am the first not to Disturb your sleep it means

That decomputed 'like you

least.

Anthony Elliott.

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