Saturday, August 26, 2006

gRAVITY'S oXBOW*

A bawling comes across the blue. A tincture of Luvox and Lobe to quell the jimmying in the scourge of my thoughts, reconnect, disconnect repeat ad nausea. Do you remember that morning 25 years ago when you awoke in a dither and chugalugged a pint of sour milk, a wail of blue sky, connected, disconnect, repeat? Remember to forget; forget to remember, it’s all the same, a Moyle’s shears, Darwin’s prepuce, an excise tax to quell that jimmying in the fob of your trousers. Morning has spoken: I have yet to awaken, knees pulled tight into the heave of my chest. Now everybody—dance!

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"Poetry is the short-circuiting of meaning between words, the impetuous regeneration of primordial myth". Bruno Schulz