Try fer comprehensible, if you might. So there's the song. (WHAT a tricky devil.) Motherfucking poets here, there, everywhere, liars the lot. But, but. Still. It doesn't mean enough to me to never forget it. His doubt I like, have always liked, since I saw it, there's a thread of honesty, tho abstract, and stark-minded: you want to cry BULLSHIT to whatever falsenesses, whatever forgeries, whatever fucking bastard lying pricks you come across. And in poems - what-have-yew. So fuck science, engineers, and earners. Also: society's reductions. He may have stood for --'We live in a world we never understand.' -- which I think I follow enough. So, it's right enough: we miss it, always. 'I think always how we always miss it'. Personality, esp, he was keen to pt out, is a great lie, a series, and continues; people living in a space (room, apartment, house) never get far away from what we see in children playing 'house'. Costumes too. A suit, jeans, or tight shirts (to promote reproduction and the continuance of the human species, - wonders we
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Comments 8
and you're cool because of me. *sigh* yay...
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It is easy to see now that anything
I ever said was nothing: the slow words
seeming to particularize, delineate,
make real and touchable, -- what were these?
Well, once a naturalness, accepting that,
of course, it was to see, to move and love.
I was. The world was. I spoke of it,
spoke to it, responded, sensed or made its shape.
It is unspeakable, that which exists.
All I ever said was spoken of what
is not, by one who is not. We do not speak
of that. Oh, we say. Make speeches, love.
And it is in place of what we would say,
what will not ever be spoken, cannot: is.
-- William Bronk
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