Saturday, March 01, 2008

Sir Francis Bacon on Rye

(March 1/08)

A cattle-drive of dung-white snow, 27½ methadone-midges left unaccounted for, poor loopy-eyed slogs. Flat-skiff swollen glands, free bonnets for Mary on Pike, wooly woolens and a wee haberdasher’s tat-on-lye. (March snow, what a lion’s farce and skittle). I am very tired, exhausted, and well past my bedtime time. Second Hypothesis: the world is all appearance, anything that isn’t or hasn’t already been revealed does not exist, nada.

Hypothesis thrice: there is nothing more insufferable than needless suffering, nada. Flat-skiff swollen glands and free bonnets for Mary on Pike, the Bard was the bastard-child of Sir Francis Bacon on Rye…and then some. My ass is a Dantean trumpet trumpeting to beat the band (such is such and such). I hate the blues, azures and Prussian’s. A wee haberdasher’s tat-on-lye, a pick-me-up for those cold febrile days, the days left in between, the other, other days.

(February 29/08 anon)

Hypothesis one: the world is a random series of reoccurring events, the trick is knowing what random series will reoccur and when. Cowboys wear two-gallon cowboy hats. My ass is a Dantean trumpet, my ass belongs to the world, the world is made up of facts, the facts are the world, the world is rife with Dantean trumpeting asses (such as mine).

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