the Four, the Five; the Sink, the Skink…..

John Hopkins → 22::March::2009 21:20 → cats::texts, third party texts

wow
bow-wow
and a swoon.

what an exhaustion,
what a prolongation,
what a
yeast-explosion
(souffle)
(implosion)
yesterday
was.

The Past is not dead;
it’s not even past.

Recently,
often enough,
my body has been a
contagious site

for arduous,
tenacious
spirits

for collisions,
elisions, litterings,
erosions,
floods
of certain humours,
certain histories.

Very much
in the Locus
of Mallarme and Naufrage,
Coup de des.

This “present” circumstance
(of intellectual inertia)
is untenable,
is impossible.

It Is Time—-
to cut the Strings
(of the Violin)—-
and to way with the giving Storm,
across the gravelled
waves.

The rigour,
the balance,
the elastic effervescence
of the Sycamore
surpass
every aspect
of the House.

No Need of Nature,
No Need of Art for This—-.

Franz
conceives of a “man”
who awakens in “his” bed
with the body of a scarab
(Old Egypt and its Love
of Puns);
a “man” who yet
(miraculously)
“retains” his human head.

What
might we say of a man,
who neither sleeps nor wakes;
who finds himself
inside
a Mural-Wall,
Wall-inside-a-Forest,
Land
travelling at Sea?

Wall: as Compass.
Forest: as its Clock…..

A….Reader? ….Reader-Hand?

Aestival,
estual,

Rain-Hand

Palus-Reeder?

(As with
*I Ching*—-
Biting-through-the-Sack….

What
kind of Sky?)

An.

– a. zega

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