Monday, 7 April 2014

92. All This Silver Montage (373 Things)

Fig. 7: The Poets Don’t Do It Right Again

All the beautiful detritus arrives at once & very ruddy now – like the old map of empire declared it. We’ve just past Hallowe’en (again! – but did you really expect things to happen only once?) We’ve stopped counting, as the numbers begin to run out. Yes, it does all sort of empty into blunder – but, again, and again, what do you expect? You expect failure? Well, you won’t fucking get it then – crash and burn, baby, now! We do remember always to glow, here, before we end. It’s a rapid vestigial, or vestigiale rapido, nostra whatsit, nostra vita, la nostra vita vestigiale e rapida. That’s easy, that one. The terrain in this bowl, though, anything but – a muck & mess of old broken pudding-stone, obliterated & variegated. Why don’t I list the colours? What a maledizione! What an obelisk! What a legend of ripped pages. Continuing, familiar, dilapidated – the ethereal blue of positivity against the blood red of terminal moraines. How odd & constant the broken real. Trapped in institutions & nostra city verbale, like some soggily riverine Hejinian – Hey! Let’s follow these noisy, disordered children out! The wave breaks all this bloody appearance against us, in an angel’s eyeblink. That unstable & shaken. Here let me point to it, to these things, coloured, beautiful, broken, illusory, uncalled, and ‘ll

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