Sadly, a warm train means the d— 's just been in. The only picture is Fernando Rey. Reading The Children’s Bach. Many Italians in town. Always winds of trade. I am, rightfully, nauseous at the too familiar, too predictably licentious stylizations.
Billbill (on bone).
The beak dying down. In Desk Set rewatched, moody Katherine, her jig revealed, upfacing the truth of soon-to-change coat-hanger status, spoons with focus a heap of Baked Alaska (always capped).
No fire onscreen. Allusion is illusion enough. (Woman fire plenty). Your kitchen, smoking—Tracy tells her. He can't do anything about it. So, the hidden blowtorch: thought, I think, its propulsions, its searing of unnamed immensities, cartwheeling blaze this now, this now, greet it, and do by it not as pain, it cannot pass to Tracy, him—body, finally, appreciated—correct from within yourself, transect all shadows of belief, soft meringue of yes, you know this feeling. Time always stretches when it does, indeed, eventually, come(s).
Fruit. who owns what and time. The sticker lifted to reveal. A smitten word, glacé, en glance.
A year later basics, such as;
Waterfall inseamed
While still we substitute for sun food remains white and black ? or beige
Why will not my body rise to peak the beast of too much
Time how to move when no move known
The way awaiting
water in its way aglow
yet I, am not lit up the page for me not lit with
Being told
untold, I am certain in a future telling
Restless at vivisection
Vivisected?
Some think the world lacking and I think the world plentiful
Plenty here to not push off a day For
Plenty to come
