Friday, January 15, 2010


On our own we stand, not part of all but lone and full of fright. In a kind of night our souls are out as boats that float in need of wind, as moats that go in speed at spin, as goats that mow the lawn just like the moats as round and round they go (the flat sphere would serve here well in what I tell were it not that it has two of what I must use one).

But back to the point: do not you find that kin and kind, both near and far, yes: all that are, do scrape their sides with one and each but to no end; at least not to the end they bend: the one they want?

No, in truth, there can be none of what we seek at heart, the core, the pith, the more, the most, oh yes: the boast of man of time in all. Of what do I speak? Of Love. The bit of life in which we fuse and join and come to one from two who were not glue, who were not stuck, no not as such, but struck by fuck is all. I pall. I gall. And if in this I fail: I fall, I wrong, I do you bad, then leave me be for that is what you can’t but do, that’s your soul choice to chew.

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