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I can see a teenage Chris writing this or, perhaps many of us---he wrote this at 16 years old. These I have loathed: Asthmatic engines; stations; Tea in the parlour; coughing congregations; ---And coal scuttles; and coal; and clammy hands; And business men; and military bands; Tomatoes; hypocrites, and smelly places, And ill conceived emotion; vulgar faces; Orderly picnics; pavement written scandal; And Liverpool;--and cups without a handle; The adhesive kiss of lipstick; school; and blackboards (And all that’s written on them)---ugly discords Struck by aspiring pianists; pyjamas, When I have lost the cord; and spying farmers; Meals missed; and ink; The obstinate embrace Of cobwebs; and my brother’s blatant face; Unripe bananas;--little more than ripe— And close-cropped hair; wet hands I cannot wipe; Names unpronounceable; and bowler hats; My nose, and mutilated books; and spats; And raucous horns; effluvium of fish; Plucked eyebrows; mud; to “close my eyes and wish” For vague delights; tobacco-reeking fingers; And feet and stocks and shares and millionaires, And wealth; but more than all ill-gotten pelf, I hate my gross, inevitable self.
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