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Wednesday, March 19, 2008

Room 276

Report from Iso-Man

Again the Woody-Wood-Pecker

Early morning laughter

Is a good enough description.

This heart pain is not a medicine.

Waking that day you, you expected joy,

Because everything, like headlines,

Was day after day - and you couldn’t.

You had hoped for ebullience

To blaze out of crannies, but instead,

Or because of, there was only a clever clue:

John the over and under man who could have been

At Pompei - of course because you thought of it

And were trying to impress them -

But the women just turned away.

And oil was oozing like erotic black stuff:

The next day, which blurred into mirrors,

There was a terrifying rumour of a man

Who reacted. All this reminds me of-

That day she and I (young) (silly) (hot)

and (rashly) - wrote A loves B on the sand,

When she was certain: but I have tried

To control that part of my Universe.

But the waves? It has all ways puzzled me,

That that thing we did, which was a spell,

Was erased into our lives - but the next day:

We made it! There were millions and gifts and guests;

And I caught out a lot: laughing, but, they, took:

Absolutely no notice. So I went right to the top!

You were so proud! You looked at me!

Yes, and then I returned to the then-now

And those bloody Woody-Wood-Pecker birds

With their early morning madness. They clacked.

They awoke and it seemed all surreal and giggly

About a meaning they kept from me. . . So I,

Asked for assistance, but there was no one,

So it became something rushing off just

As I was looking carefully into and prying

And wincing at the blurr: which was the rev,

The rev, the revelation which soap-Slipped

Whaaeee! out of my hands, fuck it, so I returned;

But they saw and - simultaneously - turned their

Backs so that a certain percent say of the subset

Of x million of the subset z, quite at once

Slit their throats. Death was falling all over

Itself all over the bloody place.

Then I remembered - the baby waving bye bye,

And the little hand, but I was not repeat not

Fooled. I grew up to be a rugged All Black

Or something, but I never forgot the Fifth Curve.

So. I had exhausted my options.

I took some annual leave from the human vacuum

And began to recreate The Hand: the gigantic Hand

Old-growing in centurious seconds: became.

But then it wrink-wrenches clamps shakes

And began to dissolve.

Or it gets weaker weaker weaker, slowly:

They all watch, they are tranced -

This is a show! The brave fingers

Like a fly-spray dying spider. . . at last! at last!

Give up, and the dolly: the dolly drops!

Squeaking with freedom! The Head.

The Head is feebly. The Head turns. The Head.

But twenty stories down, and squashed across

A car, the dead dolly is dead, so dead -

It declined to comment: kept dignity;

Refused to be drawn. So...

So we filed it under Section Z2347.

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