Monday, November 06, 2006

hOBBESIAN mALICE*

A medicate for a mendicant, and this ethereal cacophony, a hosanna Sanso for the herd of hearing and sylph. No Lilliputian’s or a one up the whole-end. That’d be a most unseemly monk and wallop. I say althea hosanna anal impetigo anon. never one am I to neither mince nor monger words swill-brewed and gulped upon gulp. Alabaster bastard’s wearied sole-shoed, neither shod of foot or Achilles’. Lance narks on the manse of his wee feats hackle sod and shoddy; fucking archly enemas for the faint of Intel and continent. I best get some sleep aft fore the mornings murmur puts a full stop to this murder of words et al anon so seethe me the cord all musty monk and lye.

This cannot go on, it will go on. Sleeplessness has taken its toll, axing bone from collar, scapula from rachis, yardarm from scaffolding, such colicky Hobbesian malice.

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