Sunday, December 24, 1995
To insist on a division of labor, the difference and the borderline, all under a layer of coal. Dust into the chute a few times, then the building grows, in loud strokes, not quickly. Rooms undisturbed until noon superceded by practical considerations. Genuine science so deeply buried. At the edge of an abyss. No answer to misery.
This pain of ours, the day, penetrating ever more deeply. Decorating the tomb. Women light a match in order to be ruined. As a swimmer panics. In the same blind alley. Under the soundless, nearly soundless, compulsion made living. Traffic, rising and falling, the timid souls who make the cannon sound. A product, and in a way innocent. Your pale, anonymous, inarticulate, democratic prize, a target for guns sooner or later, that disappointed expression of the distribution of power in Europe. Guns and the sound they make with the other whores on the outward slope. On the small white table. Ignorance, what ignorance and reduction, familiar and unfamiliar as with voices from the window arousing sympathy. To understand, and to try, perceived as mere sound. The spires and chimneys moving westward into the countryside for the next hundred years.
Rational, logical, but everything a natural basis for arguing against the asphalt and the stone bridge. The noise, the pressure of the rotors. Combinations, constituents, beautifully everything gone at the edge of the train tracks in their brown tombs. Living with it even in Berlin, long hours of weeping again with a sad gravity, driven back in the same black car, enclosed in the hollow of these bodies on this smooth wall, overtaken. Happiness as something perpetually at a loss, at the table, shattered, trying to recall, in fact merely wearied them. All the shoemakers of the world vanished, with autumn’s leaves, into the planetarium, the infinitely vast field of the living.
The music stops and the circus lies in total darkness. In a vacuum but among each other, the naked, closed facades in an empty room with a crucifix. Strange farewells, so soon cold and hard, and their deserted air, the way shadows will, slowly, kisses in air. Revolutionary patience or revolutionary impatience. The prisoner or prison conditions forced into a monologue. The other, with great presence. The only languages used in order to survive. Every bedroom and intimate scene and making dumb sounds in the back of the room. The forms of all objects similar, incapable of much emotion, doomed to resemble one another. Bad luck and abandoned. A day’s work like a proper comrade. The passengers survive. Individuals imbued with the principles of the state (up a little stairway to the floor above). Anything, or what they do.
The interruption in silence then the silence again, till the horses for hours in the field.
Only matter matters. Paradise, pain.
Explanation has been less than complete.
To insist on a division of labor, the difference and the borderline, all under a layer of coal. Dust into the chute a few times, then the building grows, in loud strokes, not quickly. Rooms undisturbed until noon superceded by practical considerations. Genuine science so deeply buried. At the edge of an abyss. No answer to misery.
This pain of ours, the day, penetrating ever more deeply. Decorating the tomb. Women light a match in order to be ruined. As a swimmer panics. In the same blind alley. Under the soundless, nearly soundless, compulsion made living. Traffic, rising and falling, the timid souls who make the cannon sound. A product, and in a way innocent. Your pale, anonymous, inarticulate, democratic prize, a target for guns sooner or later, that disappointed expression of the distribution of power in Europe. Guns and the sound they make with the other whores on the outward slope. On the small white table. Ignorance, what ignorance and reduction, familiar and unfamiliar as with voices from the window arousing sympathy. To understand, and to try, perceived as mere sound. The spires and chimneys moving westward into the countryside for the next hundred years.
Rational, logical, but everything a natural basis for arguing against the asphalt and the stone bridge. The noise, the pressure of the rotors. Combinations, constituents, beautifully everything gone at the edge of the train tracks in their brown tombs. Living with it even in Berlin, long hours of weeping again with a sad gravity, driven back in the same black car, enclosed in the hollow of these bodies on this smooth wall, overtaken. Happiness as something perpetually at a loss, at the table, shattered, trying to recall, in fact merely wearied them. All the shoemakers of the world vanished, with autumn’s leaves, into the planetarium, the infinitely vast field of the living.
The music stops and the circus lies in total darkness. In a vacuum but among each other, the naked, closed facades in an empty room with a crucifix. Strange farewells, so soon cold and hard, and their deserted air, the way shadows will, slowly, kisses in air. Revolutionary patience or revolutionary impatience. The prisoner or prison conditions forced into a monologue. The other, with great presence. The only languages used in order to survive. Every bedroom and intimate scene and making dumb sounds in the back of the room. The forms of all objects similar, incapable of much emotion, doomed to resemble one another. Bad luck and abandoned. A day’s work like a proper comrade. The passengers survive. Individuals imbued with the principles of the state (up a little stairway to the floor above). Anything, or what they do.
The interruption in silence then the silence again, till the horses for hours in the field.
Only matter matters. Paradise, pain.
Explanation has been less than complete.
posted by Scott MacLeod at 1:05 PM
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