Saturday, December 23, 1995
Some white garden.
Disappearance. Another room. Turned the key and now come to speech, yet unaccustomed to the sight, forlorn without it, and in each occasion seen in a gesture that can act directly, and, thus, no more of a burden. Millions below the surface in general conversations among themselves, the prime minister, the minister of culture, the minister of education, of war. There are too many others like me, nothing to offer, dead sparks with no center, hands eaten by rust, and they shout, there is just so much going on, a fainted woman under a tent, the rain upon the earth, an army crosses over, a moon as red as that, breast, hand, leg, crotch, leg. Cornea, trumpetcall. Stray dogs over the the metal grating, excited, then falling on the city, vanishing left and right. The tower is falling, falling, means nothing anymore. Something horrible, consciousness. Will have none. Trained to act. To come to permission. This life on streetcorners and go back, drunk and hanging, bright red, the eyes go blind, as they are constantly being approached. Armed for descent into lies, all of it, huge stone animals on the wrong side of the river, among earth’s trading posts. Their good conscience and valor, their elevated, sacred comedy. Men’s essential distraction used up, consumed, deafening, discreet, strange, masculine, assonant, clever and uneasy. Turns and nods. Leaning back with closed eyes, more beautiful, the vanished gin and coffee, those steps in the early morning, woen with newspapers and books, vanished in their inner orbits.
Their iron slab and coal trucks. Letting loose every kind of emotion. Their factories, and our obsessions. Unable to turn completely black, existing in such contradiction, not a question of giving. There is a basic agreement beyond rationality and want that draws the blood. Astonished to see how easy it is. Attention to immaterial phenomenon.
How little seen was needed. The sunlight swinging high up. Definitely hazardous, fantastic. The thin flickering on a cracked tin violin. All the damned, many, beautiful, indifferent, fluttering, unpremeditated, the vast verdant picture I recognized. To them the final collapse by the roadside in the snow.
Some white garden.
Disappearance. Another room. Turned the key and now come to speech, yet unaccustomed to the sight, forlorn without it, and in each occasion seen in a gesture that can act directly, and, thus, no more of a burden. Millions below the surface in general conversations among themselves, the prime minister, the minister of culture, the minister of education, of war. There are too many others like me, nothing to offer, dead sparks with no center, hands eaten by rust, and they shout, there is just so much going on, a fainted woman under a tent, the rain upon the earth, an army crosses over, a moon as red as that, breast, hand, leg, crotch, leg. Cornea, trumpetcall. Stray dogs over the the metal grating, excited, then falling on the city, vanishing left and right. The tower is falling, falling, means nothing anymore. Something horrible, consciousness. Will have none. Trained to act. To come to permission. This life on streetcorners and go back, drunk and hanging, bright red, the eyes go blind, as they are constantly being approached. Armed for descent into lies, all of it, huge stone animals on the wrong side of the river, among earth’s trading posts. Their good conscience and valor, their elevated, sacred comedy. Men’s essential distraction used up, consumed, deafening, discreet, strange, masculine, assonant, clever and uneasy. Turns and nods. Leaning back with closed eyes, more beautiful, the vanished gin and coffee, those steps in the early morning, woen with newspapers and books, vanished in their inner orbits.
Their iron slab and coal trucks. Letting loose every kind of emotion. Their factories, and our obsessions. Unable to turn completely black, existing in such contradiction, not a question of giving. There is a basic agreement beyond rationality and want that draws the blood. Astonished to see how easy it is. Attention to immaterial phenomenon.
How little seen was needed. The sunlight swinging high up. Definitely hazardous, fantastic. The thin flickering on a cracked tin violin. All the damned, many, beautiful, indifferent, fluttering, unpremeditated, the vast verdant picture I recognized. To them the final collapse by the roadside in the snow.
posted by Scott MacLeod at 1:03 PM
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