my brain is all full of slop, slurried mud and alien body pieces like a trench in the ardennes. i only think up snippets of things, hardly worth describing. when the sun is up and i should be sleeping i bike to the library and sit by the fireplace which isn't lit yet in august. i take small stacks of books and furtively ingest the text as if i'm not allowed to check these books out, i have to do it quickly so no one sees, like a spy in reverse. i don't leave a trace but strangers aren't permitted to see what information i am gobbling.
i'm reading, again, about dancing mania. this happens annually. i wait for that deep deep taproot of fear to go momentarily bone dry when i find the right music for my evening alone at home. i flip through stacks of records and settle on somber-sawing viol, echoing tenebrous and plaintive. the slightly muffled, tinny recording sounds voyeuristic. poor mr. de sainte-colombe. i'm really bad company lately.
ohhhh youtube comments.
No comments:
Post a Comment