Sunday, November 19, 2006

pOUR vOUS, mONSIEUR cLIFF*

I awoke disconnected to the thingamajig that haematites my fingers. This, so I was forewarned, portents a genocide of grammar and syntax, an elocutionary enchorial common to roustabouts and dustbin-men. Corruption, especially in the pre-frontal midrib, can cause horrid whooping and colic, night-sweats and coopery, a barrelhouse of shit-aphelia and whorish language. I will see what can be done, and rewire the cursor that attenuates the Babel in my head, next to Roget’s commode, a cowslip and the rector-rector’s bench.

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