Sunday, 1 November 2009


Children are frolicking on a Spanish beach. Sound of waves and quiet noise of breeze. Gradually the children absent themselves. The sky darkens suddenly, a drastic violent dusk the colour of spilled ink.

The empty wine bottles and the remote control make my thighs ache, as do all things cumbersome and prosaic and my shirt is a crystalline secret in the brilliance of the strange Spanish night.
I recall the eerie gleam of her eyes.

I am a secret vessel... coca-cola meditation and the Buddhists have the monopoly on feeling placid.
I eat food and sweat, my skin smells of medicine and the ocean.

A faint chill... a vague restlessness...
A vague yen for warmth
for some sort of warmth

beautiful grinding tedium of autumn
a diminished autumn

clocks falling off of walls in reverse
constantly startled

the world grinds on in all its tedium; everything
is at odds with everything else

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