Thursday, February 25, 2010

Fictions of the Interlude

'Only a great intuition can act as a compass in the wastelands of the soul; only with a sense which utilizes intelligence, but does not resemble it, although in this respect it becomes one with it, can one distinguish these dream figures in their reality ...'

And then we discover they are the same...Fussy

penalties for love of oblivion or for luck through oblivion, fucking rhythm and sorrow, An obvious ruin A piece of rubber bobbing like a dolphin on a bustling street when it comes up to the empty boat, climbs on

Blues for Mister Charlie/Notes for Blues

Meridian. Multiple meridians. And the man is quite early to funnel them to/from a dream. He's nervous when we give ourselves rules. I remember vividly the first time it occurred to me. Now you've got it. You really got it now.

Wednesday, February 24, 2010

Monday, February 22, 2010

Cache is to Cash as/That's not Science

It's a shock to any system to see(k) perfection. So one suffers/splurges on black/today is nature's hiding place. Where she stores her loot. This is what she enjoys in her hours away from labor. When she partakes of black...nature believes she is sinning. She falls peacefully into the implements of sleep in her dark hours and wakes suspicious to the sun's white rays. At night she dares to lie naked among the folds of her own desires. She speaks to no one of the night, but gives it generously to anyone who possesses the profoundness to hunger for it

Friday, February 19, 2010

Tuesday, February 9, 2010

Thursday, February 4, 2010

La lluvia

It couldnt be those badges could it

While standing on a rocking chair has not lost its elegance, which after all is the model for our own wounds, scatter

They've turned the tops of London tower blocks into fortresses, which afterall is the model for our own wounds, scatter

we are going to rest for a day and then make music from the ruins of a crusader castle


I am so selfish: I am so happy its hard to care how

Holdovers from the remembered past turn up

in imitations

You are sensationalists. Your mother, your first sound