Monday, December 25, 1995
The avenue is built on sunlight, as if the whole stinking world brings itself into existence to wander around and around like birds on the unified surface, everywhere, for the wonder of discovery. And in the present one moves with it, into every genre, tiny cracks and postures operating, the nuances and nothing. All the more industry and concentration, abruptly punctuated, the rush, thrown away, shouts shouted. Men’s profiles and attentive eyes. Strokes of madness appear between voices and the body, shards, as lightly as an impression of horror conveyed. Silky, charming, beautiful, everything aware, the sky open up to let all encompass us completely in a hideous costume. The dress, massive, lies heavily and complex, all of it human, always always you.
Want to run, run, run around, run, instantly being welcomed. A liberating, absurd singleness. A view of the sea and the horizon. No walls, no ceiling, the sun transformed overnight into a criminal, which, startled, follows hearts rather than one straight north, and I weaken as before, to and fro with disturbances. The slowest of movements, or the last. My sentimental moment to bore into the warm center, hello, hello, good day, good day. Intoxication come down like nails into wood. A constant inclination to lay oneself down, such complete repose to restore, abandon the position, bring the experiment to an end. The sea the earth and all men. The sounds of the last fragments, this, that, in certain situations, just abandoned, in short.
Lift it up, take it off. The wheel and the brakes. The everlasting examinations, the instrument panel and the wretchedness. The particular mood that makes chemical factories, gasworks, as if there were no such thing as a bigger prison. Tall thin windows forming a large row. Air into calm white. Still on, the cones swinging, towards the edge, rattling doorhandles along the sidewalk. Beautiful girls disappear into the shadows. Amnesiacs, ataxics, catatonics who are on their way in gasps and bursts, into the same distortion of terror. Little girls and then a chalk face, the despotic face of the fallen.
Caught, to lull youself in a gambling and indolent network of interpretations. Too concerned with measuring its rectangle or circle to mind its exceptional need to be protected from this directness, this happiness, these half-formed incoherences, the other volumes and cavities. Threatened by something reaching forever in the intervals between journeys. Charred shell, floating still, alone, returning. No word, no stubborn device. Some ashes which yet adhere. How hollow the reconciliation upon the features of the dead, like a flower, silent. The other volumes and cavities. Lay back down into this highly-polished beginning and laboriously grow cold, grow small. You cannot go further in life than this sentence.
The avenue is built on sunlight, as if the whole stinking world brings itself into existence to wander around and around like birds on the unified surface, everywhere, for the wonder of discovery. And in the present one moves with it, into every genre, tiny cracks and postures operating, the nuances and nothing. All the more industry and concentration, abruptly punctuated, the rush, thrown away, shouts shouted. Men’s profiles and attentive eyes. Strokes of madness appear between voices and the body, shards, as lightly as an impression of horror conveyed. Silky, charming, beautiful, everything aware, the sky open up to let all encompass us completely in a hideous costume. The dress, massive, lies heavily and complex, all of it human, always always you.
Want to run, run, run around, run, instantly being welcomed. A liberating, absurd singleness. A view of the sea and the horizon. No walls, no ceiling, the sun transformed overnight into a criminal, which, startled, follows hearts rather than one straight north, and I weaken as before, to and fro with disturbances. The slowest of movements, or the last. My sentimental moment to bore into the warm center, hello, hello, good day, good day. Intoxication come down like nails into wood. A constant inclination to lay oneself down, such complete repose to restore, abandon the position, bring the experiment to an end. The sea the earth and all men. The sounds of the last fragments, this, that, in certain situations, just abandoned, in short.
Lift it up, take it off. The wheel and the brakes. The everlasting examinations, the instrument panel and the wretchedness. The particular mood that makes chemical factories, gasworks, as if there were no such thing as a bigger prison. Tall thin windows forming a large row. Air into calm white. Still on, the cones swinging, towards the edge, rattling doorhandles along the sidewalk. Beautiful girls disappear into the shadows. Amnesiacs, ataxics, catatonics who are on their way in gasps and bursts, into the same distortion of terror. Little girls and then a chalk face, the despotic face of the fallen.
Caught, to lull youself in a gambling and indolent network of interpretations. Too concerned with measuring its rectangle or circle to mind its exceptional need to be protected from this directness, this happiness, these half-formed incoherences, the other volumes and cavities. Threatened by something reaching forever in the intervals between journeys. Charred shell, floating still, alone, returning. No word, no stubborn device. Some ashes which yet adhere. How hollow the reconciliation upon the features of the dead, like a flower, silent. The other volumes and cavities. Lay back down into this highly-polished beginning and laboriously grow cold, grow small. You cannot go further in life than this sentence.
posted by Scott MacLeod at 1:06 PM
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