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The Shakespeare Memorial Theatre

I write my poems at the Shakespeare Memorial Theatre—it seems appropriate. I can tell you where Ophelia drowned, if you wish—the very spot; it’s not in a journal, I don’t have a citation—you can only find out by intuition.

The theatre burned down in 1926—and guides will tell you it was rebuilt by a female architect, the first on record (though, strangely, she did no else); and the Masons paraded—as they do, once in a blue moon—round her new foundation stone.

I say this fire was no accident—just like Notre-Dame, another unpunished crime; rather there are forces, under the unicorn sign—which stands for Satan, in ancient lore—who wish to bring what is perverse to exaltation; and with it—ruin of the nation.

You might say I’m paranoid—a cliché, with my fascination for Masons and Jews—yet you could say I have a second site. Indeed, I think you might say that what I am here to do is build the Shakespeare Memorial Theatre


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