Friday, 28 June 2013

Les rivières sont des chemins qui marchent, et qui portent où l’on veut aller

Each day I’d escape the labyrinth, hot breath of pursuers at back of my neck. Each night I’d join the pursuers, cries of the pursued echoing along the walls of the labyrinth, in places rough & rocky, in others smooth, glittering, glass flowing water. Then I turned collector of music boxes. Or we became invisible. 

In a back room they’d stacked old mattresses, crazily zigzagging to caress ceiling’s paint peel. We examined each mattress for cigarette burns. It was as we’d begun to imagine. It was as if we’d begun to imagine. It was as we had imagined we’d imagine it.

““I can’t live inside these thoughts any longer.”” Descriptive aberrancies also represent language.

The sky clouding over, over. She helped clear & pack away picnic things. Conventional war. A mosquito bit him on the leg. We watched, as at an autopsy, his skin become a sunset. Acts of violence.

In despair they butchered the packhorses. In despair, they butchered the packhorses. The packhorses butchered they.

When I was young my ambition was to climb lighthouse steps, a burning star in a bottle cradled in my arms. I was gentle & did no harm to those who stood in my way.

Scream of protesters. The flanks of police horse, gleamingly dark. One idea is that God is made of an infinity of miniature gods, all eternally at war. A blackbird’s head askance, pierce gaze.

We gave the door a kick & its rusted padlock broke away. In summer she lived far from where I thought & was the first to read incalculable words painted on those floorboards. Paucity logic. Explain your self. Tattered fringe of cantata.

The back of the cottage disappeared as we were reading next day’s map. Out under an evening sky we were, giant moths pressed against our mouths, the navigator’s postbox belching smoke. 

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