January 13
They count and recount for over an hour so that they might languish, continent in dissolution, behind pointless clues, hidden fingers. No one knows, no one sees. Numbers of men and the safety of the increasing. The corpse of the state, a vestal, this monster practically beyond stupidity, producing the ecstasy, bearing witness to the absence. This monster was outfitted, broken to the saddle, intervenes to restrict pleasure to the violation. Such eloquence to supplicate the best as worthy of living, vital urge in its ultimate form watches its free play of brutalities succeeded by new challenges. The traitor lays cuts, blindness to renounce the crisis, escapes (her and her labor), labor in a life of sweet slumbers.
Exchanging one torment for another. A special kind of boredom for a walk through this world. Tranquility, it seems, in a dark room, many hours a day. A bone and crawl. The loneliness surrounding ideas. Merely meant preparing the ground instead of actually building houses. The wheel deserted, then abandoned.
Desire over the deep sea, leading to death.
The wheel surrendered, and apart. Silent, motionless, with the light shining down among the dead stumblings on the distant earth.
This pale light, promise, a charlatan or seducer of children. That sweet shore launched the object, no doubt, and words to carry away. Stiff creatures in robes and uniforms, and cynical spirit, to all popular applause. The drilled-in habit of obedience, empty-handed, repeating facts without comment. Another three or four factories in the middle of the night, by train.
How white, how little desirous.
Yet we must exhaust the same feeling, of the burning ship surrounded. Singing snatches of songs.
These fathers and mothers burned down to their sockets.
It is the same music which only great, lonesome hearts could understand. As memory even into the silent grave forever, no memory even for the complete disruption of the world, this beautiful world, the living, the straightforward, the future. A small table and a whiskey. That same old-world village in every direction. Shelter and protection till morning.
The fires men light at night.
They count and recount for over an hour so that they might languish, continent in dissolution, behind pointless clues, hidden fingers. No one knows, no one sees. Numbers of men and the safety of the increasing. The corpse of the state, a vestal, this monster practically beyond stupidity, producing the ecstasy, bearing witness to the absence. This monster was outfitted, broken to the saddle, intervenes to restrict pleasure to the violation. Such eloquence to supplicate the best as worthy of living, vital urge in its ultimate form watches its free play of brutalities succeeded by new challenges. The traitor lays cuts, blindness to renounce the crisis, escapes (her and her labor), labor in a life of sweet slumbers.
Exchanging one torment for another. A special kind of boredom for a walk through this world. Tranquility, it seems, in a dark room, many hours a day. A bone and crawl. The loneliness surrounding ideas. Merely meant preparing the ground instead of actually building houses. The wheel deserted, then abandoned.
Desire over the deep sea, leading to death.
The wheel surrendered, and apart. Silent, motionless, with the light shining down among the dead stumblings on the distant earth.
This pale light, promise, a charlatan or seducer of children. That sweet shore launched the object, no doubt, and words to carry away. Stiff creatures in robes and uniforms, and cynical spirit, to all popular applause. The drilled-in habit of obedience, empty-handed, repeating facts without comment. Another three or four factories in the middle of the night, by train.
How white, how little desirous.
Yet we must exhaust the same feeling, of the burning ship surrounded. Singing snatches of songs.
These fathers and mothers burned down to their sockets.
It is the same music which only great, lonesome hearts could understand. As memory even into the silent grave forever, no memory even for the complete disruption of the world, this beautiful world, the living, the straightforward, the future. A small table and a whiskey. That same old-world village in every direction. Shelter and protection till morning.
The fires men light at night.
posted by Scott MacLeod at 1:16 PM
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