Tranced out in the weekend silo: keeping up with the worldy and watching things spiral like a mad dream. there’s something crawling.
“The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.”
fearfully disjointed and weakend by slow lunar cycles. can we all laugh at escalators anymore? jacob dreaming of them. where all the angels tread the stair. listen to the hissing of the cold cream. my bruises are there for all to see. mon oncle, ya, he’s got his own despair. crackling in the silent deeps of space. (when we will fly to mars again? or maybe when the steppes and plains of neptune explode in countless orgies of splintering desire? eats his childers? will he? or will the stones be sewed inside his thigh, or something?)
if i had to pick a monsoon season, it wouldn’t be now. but when things were done too quick, might not a rain of heaven seem like the thing to muddy the works and make things slow?
to be sure: who ever appears the way you want them to? there’s some kind of cracked mirror. ya. mired in selfspec.