Room 231
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maybe a shadow sleeps in your hand, but it is not known to the divergent multitude, who are cross with destiny. Our quarrel is not so direct, or our bubbles so gloating in their rise.

…Once I stood on hills, high in corn, whirled about in black by yellow crows, and did different. Things. The sob suppressed shall burst in thunder yet. Soap. This anger transforms, and many new eyes appear, as daisies, or freesias. You planted light, and reap now torment, now torrents, now rocks.

No way is safe except all ways: and we are forbidden motion. Things nowadays tend toward minima, and you, you sit alone: tape or pen in hand, and a book, and strange internal forms do crowd about: those those these these; less-comforting- than-the-flesh: and listening to songs or modes that ring, recalling the dying generation’s that all, all neglect all, and the dark and clapping coat a-stick, & such arms in arms, and the joyful bitter hope of gold, beat into music: free in the holy fire outside desire or any gyre, keeping awake….these strange sounds that ring from those who live and have learnt to sing…

You, of course, are dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead to the world: skewered, sliced, sacrificed, shorn. Spat out by those you had trusted most. And so should you be!

For how is it you think you are so important: with so many syndromes, diseases, shootings, atrocious accidents, massacres: in fact, the summated enbloodment? Eh?! Hmm!?!

Words are thus evolved: or invented ‘in sudden throat’, for evil or ‘good’ occasion. (Evil vile and virid (yet red yellow bright) amphispbaena sleep about as if in the dreams of La Tentation de St. Antoine …)

all this said, and, if acknowledged – let us note – those of us who are alive – how the sky is so blue, and the shrieking has subsided.

so. I shall hazard forth, – e’en as the great and holy machinery of this creaking orb doth shudder with Begin – and slobbered forebodings of joy and joy and more and more and more to come…

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