I would hide my smokes in a hole in the side of the terrazzo staircase.
I keep fluxing between my different ages. Maybe time up until the present is fluid. For years I've never been older than 32. Or something.
I keep writing in another language. The one I was surrounded by when I finally bothered making sounds.
These are my hands. They have hold a gazillion things from toy cars to babies, breasts and keys. How well they remember.
I never made money having an opinion.
When she was younger my mother was a girl. My father saw her. She wasn't allowed to cast her shadow anywhere outside without her father's say so.
You were younger. So was I. We cast shadows. But not when we sleep.
Fame is the name of a bug-eaten mud-tiger. Tantalizing.
What really goes on nobody know, but it's started and we can't do nothing; even that is an action. Me and a pal mimed to all his Beatles singles on badminton racket guitars.
There must be life beyond the three chords.
First guitar and totally lost. Second guitar and totally swallowed.
My granddad was everywhere I looked. Smiling and not smiling.
I just hid, or, I just hit. Whatever.
Now I can imagine what mum and dad felt like when I arrived. And I remember my sister's arrival. It snowed a lot that evening.
Memory is biological or reverse: biology has a memory. At birthdays there's cakes and buns with raisins for those who like it.
Presence is not an unambiguous thing or a double negative.
Order is temporary. It's in the order of things. Disorder is a human concept. It has to do with our limited capacity to see the whole – or the hole. What our meager instruments – maths and models – can't grasp we call chaos – or darkness. In short.
These days daylight is sparse. I'm overall on good terms with my feet.
(Could there be a mythology where the World was something barfed up by a giant beast?)
No comments:
Post a Comment