January 18
Guns, thunder, earthquakes, thrashings matter, here the senses stuck in this or that lamentation, sound of vile action, silently leave it again by dismay, the most frightening curiousity or disgust. Morning’s first hours frightened like dilated eyes, shapes moved about in spirit, marooned.
The colossi hover, burning.
Forgetfulness and hysteria, out to the woods, as in the selection of certain tones, the old, unfillable ones. Is in fact a sophisticated denial. To disclose the secrets of the motor is in fact a sophisticated denial. Thoroughly puritanical any satisfaction. The mind in its effort at separation immediately surrendered to some new master. Go around in a perpetual state of reputation, abandoned, dissonant, reaches a pair of gloves into a stove. The loving embrace becomes translator, the experience appears a complete world, pale and cruel, without eliciting pity. Childish. (To believe). Again and again the same questions. Their bitterness, their poison, how lack of freedom is nurtured. And kindness to the gallows. Consistent champions of the unpleasant, in two languages, and sincere.
The click of the garden gate. Takes you to witness. Into the spotlight she stands, the floor collapses, this time they’re helicopters, opening and shutting. The ancient navigators, so old, reconstructing this drama, passing through the orchard, water nearby, no sea-smells, everything is altered but remains. In discrete parts, like sentences displaced by a mass view. Ghosts frightened, handed down over sharp edges, praise one master after another. Receive revelations and be fertilized.
Achievement has disappeared, destroyed, loyalty in a white nightshirt and a mask, tragedy is over and the dead can snore, not used to freedom, how to live in freedom, experience spoke against. Slept with both arms embracing. The secret of that seclusion. The literature of toxicology. Paralyzed at the sight. Endured nothing, the lamp shining in broad daylight. Powerless European science finally inconclusive and the state reduced to means of indexing things efficiently. And that I should be lost for years.
What is expected is already gone. Opaque ghosts, dense details, misery, in order to continue, more or less unaware, together on a private path, pieces being pieces of something.
Background not fixed. A place of muffled cries, against the world in some form. To be a master through the centuries. In a certain light the city always finished, forever. Of cancer and a broken heart. With glassy eyes at the sky. The radio covers the murder. The rope around the neck of the world. And the houses with pale windows. We live in wooden cases, dark fabrics. The anxiety born of time. To rekindle the anger, dismember ritual, impossible duty and disobedience. Every collection dispersed, instead of rigid and microscopic work against their explicit prohibition. Give in to surrender. We live in the imperishable dust, for knowing it is dead. Cold, still blooming though the sun has risen, and here we are again all waiting for the noose to drag us up to the bird-riddled sky.
Guns, thunder, earthquakes, thrashings matter, here the senses stuck in this or that lamentation, sound of vile action, silently leave it again by dismay, the most frightening curiousity or disgust. Morning’s first hours frightened like dilated eyes, shapes moved about in spirit, marooned.
The colossi hover, burning.
Forgetfulness and hysteria, out to the woods, as in the selection of certain tones, the old, unfillable ones. Is in fact a sophisticated denial. To disclose the secrets of the motor is in fact a sophisticated denial. Thoroughly puritanical any satisfaction. The mind in its effort at separation immediately surrendered to some new master. Go around in a perpetual state of reputation, abandoned, dissonant, reaches a pair of gloves into a stove. The loving embrace becomes translator, the experience appears a complete world, pale and cruel, without eliciting pity. Childish. (To believe). Again and again the same questions. Their bitterness, their poison, how lack of freedom is nurtured. And kindness to the gallows. Consistent champions of the unpleasant, in two languages, and sincere.
The click of the garden gate. Takes you to witness. Into the spotlight she stands, the floor collapses, this time they’re helicopters, opening and shutting. The ancient navigators, so old, reconstructing this drama, passing through the orchard, water nearby, no sea-smells, everything is altered but remains. In discrete parts, like sentences displaced by a mass view. Ghosts frightened, handed down over sharp edges, praise one master after another. Receive revelations and be fertilized.
Achievement has disappeared, destroyed, loyalty in a white nightshirt and a mask, tragedy is over and the dead can snore, not used to freedom, how to live in freedom, experience spoke against. Slept with both arms embracing. The secret of that seclusion. The literature of toxicology. Paralyzed at the sight. Endured nothing, the lamp shining in broad daylight. Powerless European science finally inconclusive and the state reduced to means of indexing things efficiently. And that I should be lost for years.
What is expected is already gone. Opaque ghosts, dense details, misery, in order to continue, more or less unaware, together on a private path, pieces being pieces of something.
Background not fixed. A place of muffled cries, against the world in some form. To be a master through the centuries. In a certain light the city always finished, forever. Of cancer and a broken heart. With glassy eyes at the sky. The radio covers the murder. The rope around the neck of the world. And the houses with pale windows. We live in wooden cases, dark fabrics. The anxiety born of time. To rekindle the anger, dismember ritual, impossible duty and disobedience. Every collection dispersed, instead of rigid and microscopic work against their explicit prohibition. Give in to surrender. We live in the imperishable dust, for knowing it is dead. Cold, still blooming though the sun has risen, and here we are again all waiting for the noose to drag us up to the bird-riddled sky.
posted by Scott MacLeod at 1:24 PM
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