(no subject)
Titian-haired wet-dog roaming the streets (wag). In the rain the damp grey stones steal the sky, steelsky, everywhere stones. Walk faster, coat against the cold, pulling black fur tighter over eyes (melancholy, black dog). Walk faster
(who is the third that walks beside us? when I count
1
2
but look up ahead.) There are many answers, each inhabiting the grey-cloaked body in turn. Shifting bodies & stony sky.
I walk, 1, 2, and there is never enough time and there is always too much. Two calendars war beneath the neat grid, plumed heads chewing a grey cloak. Lash the slowwalking beast who plods along tramples the stones with 1 2 feet, lashing the beat. Metronome with the leadgrey head tick talk, speak, creature. Tell me, why is there always too much time and never enough? Whipsaw, Wednesday (Ash Wednesday, ashgrey Wednesday) and nothing has been done and you are so far away. Tell me.
Time is only time, and no time to sit still. The metronome dogs us.
Time is a three-headed dog whose faces bite each other. One rapid, one slow, one a greg(orian)arious spokesman.
Call me Lupa and I will hold you tenderly to my breast, my gemini.
Are you calling me, like, a total. prostitute? Mixing a lot of etymologies, here, aren't you. I am callipygian, if I might toot my own tuchus.
_____
So much of what we experience assumes foreknowledge. Spoilers, previews, bookjackets, overheard conversations, reviews, past experiences, advice, pilots, Wikipedia entries, guides, précis, omens, recommendations, security breaches, trial balloons, ballooming in the steelgrey sky. This predication is dangerous: false: it implies we will always be warned. Not for the true things, the secret things, matters that keep us up nights, cut to the bone, reach to the cellcenter. We don't know. I don't know.
Ex: What does this molecule do beneath our skin?
What color is it? (Nanotechnology suggests: grey)
or
Who is the third that walks beside you?
_____
Quickcut between bodies. You are multiformed, I am too, so must be this third. Jump, skip to my you, my darling. I'm breathless in 1960, Jean-Pierre Léaud with his Sinatra sneer (jump back), hair gamine though now it likes to tangle (all Pre-raphaelite: jump back!). Hipster Botticelli, they say, as I shake out my bangs. Hipster Anna Karenina, black fur pulled tighter over my eyes. The train schedules restructure themselves on the board, making quick clicking sounds. I'm jumping down to the city. Pacing through commercials and music videos and film (jump forward) it's a fragmented world. Things fall apart, the center et cetera (cut/splice).
Our molecules do it, too, those ones that I can't foresee, or the ones we know. We're cognizant of it, the cut and splice of RNA (AHR, EN, AAAAY, vowels too long to capture the quick snake snacking itself). Cut to the consonants, and understand the best you can.
_____
O keep the Dog far hence... or with his nails he'll dig it up again!
Be careful, for digging can cut.
Dirty fingernails. Be humble. I have inherited the earth but o how many fossils. I do not wish to dig too deep, what long white bones are so easily uncovered. Long pale bodies lain on the dark red earth. My fingernails are broken and short beneath my white gloves. How can I dig so deep, so tenderly, at this small world - jumping between pathways, Frost-bit, two roads, diverge, discover - and shy back here, where we live?
In every unwilling ignorance there is a core of willful ignorance. Expect nothing (la la). Enucleate. Erase.
I AM LAZARUS COME FROM THE DEAD COME BACK TO TELL YOU ALL I SHALL TELL YOU ALL.
Shh, creature. There are corpses better left buried, though I am named for Bloom.
_____
Melancholy is a grey dog, but it can still bite, but rejects these sinews, but the bones are white.
(who is the third that walks beside us? when I count
1
2
but look up ahead.) There are many answers, each inhabiting the grey-cloaked body in turn. Shifting bodies & stony sky.
I walk, 1, 2, and there is never enough time and there is always too much. Two calendars war beneath the neat grid, plumed heads chewing a grey cloak. Lash the slowwalking beast who plods along tramples the stones with 1 2 feet, lashing the beat. Metronome with the leadgrey head tick talk, speak, creature. Tell me, why is there always too much time and never enough? Whipsaw, Wednesday (Ash Wednesday, ashgrey Wednesday) and nothing has been done and you are so far away. Tell me.
Time is only time, and no time to sit still. The metronome dogs us.
Time is a three-headed dog whose faces bite each other. One rapid, one slow, one a greg(orian)arious spokesman.
Call me Lupa and I will hold you tenderly to my breast, my gemini.
Are you calling me, like, a total. prostitute? Mixing a lot of etymologies, here, aren't you. I am callipygian, if I might toot my own tuchus.
_____
So much of what we experience assumes foreknowledge. Spoilers, previews, bookjackets, overheard conversations, reviews, past experiences, advice, pilots, Wikipedia entries, guides, précis, omens, recommendations, security breaches, trial balloons, ballooming in the steelgrey sky. This predication is dangerous: false: it implies we will always be warned. Not for the true things, the secret things, matters that keep us up nights, cut to the bone, reach to the cellcenter. We don't know. I don't know.
Ex: What does this molecule do beneath our skin?
What color is it? (Nanotechnology suggests: grey)
or
Who is the third that walks beside you?
_____
Quickcut between bodies. You are multiformed, I am too, so must be this third. Jump, skip to my you, my darling. I'm breathless in 1960, Jean-Pierre Léaud with his Sinatra sneer (jump back), hair gamine though now it likes to tangle (all Pre-raphaelite: jump back!). Hipster Botticelli, they say, as I shake out my bangs. Hipster Anna Karenina, black fur pulled tighter over my eyes. The train schedules restructure themselves on the board, making quick clicking sounds. I'm jumping down to the city. Pacing through commercials and music videos and film (jump forward) it's a fragmented world. Things fall apart, the center et cetera (cut/splice).
Our molecules do it, too, those ones that I can't foresee, or the ones we know. We're cognizant of it, the cut and splice of RNA (AHR, EN, AAAAY, vowels too long to capture the quick snake snacking itself). Cut to the consonants, and understand the best you can.
_____
O keep the Dog far hence... or with his nails he'll dig it up again!
Be careful, for digging can cut.
Dirty fingernails. Be humble. I have inherited the earth but o how many fossils. I do not wish to dig too deep, what long white bones are so easily uncovered. Long pale bodies lain on the dark red earth. My fingernails are broken and short beneath my white gloves. How can I dig so deep, so tenderly, at this small world - jumping between pathways, Frost-bit, two roads, diverge, discover - and shy back here, where we live?
In every unwilling ignorance there is a core of willful ignorance. Expect nothing (la la). Enucleate. Erase.
I AM LAZARUS COME FROM THE DEAD COME BACK TO TELL YOU ALL I SHALL TELL YOU ALL.
Shh, creature. There are corpses better left buried, though I am named for Bloom.
_____
Melancholy is a grey dog, but it can still bite, but rejects these sinews, but the bones are white.