Tuesday, September 05, 2006

mY aLHAMBRA*

It just dawned on me that it is morning, and once again I have awakened to repetition, this cursed Turing machine whirling in the cogging of my head, vectors, Alhambra’s and into’s, an unsettled unsettledness, a convulsive convulsiveness, this unmerciful mercifulness. I say, I write, I intone Alhambra, a citadel and palace in Granada, Spain, built for Moorish kings in the 12th and 13th centuries, as my headspace is neither a citadel nor a palace, but a gaol, a borstal, a Skinnerian box without an escape-hatch. Welcome to my Thurberesque world, my Walter Middian Middlemarch, my Wasteland, my Granada, my Alhambra.

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