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Saturday, January 28, 2012

Room xV111.9x


Pursuant to the above, and as affirmed D vs, the Crown,1878, (Lon. 156 p.v445), if only we could bring these people to justice the light keeps and then she sighed if only a motor bike might appear and it is not known why we are here, and not there: as things are frequently far too Yellow for anyone (let alone the Purveyors of Whiteness) to think correctly, (a kind of Bleak House, a fog, a Jarndyce (and Jarndyce) implic, the window pane fog-rubbing its yellow Muzzle and making sudden leaps in the day-night or (refusal) in the violet evening propagating a further fear of more things (peering) which indeed is how the Circularity could be closed or closeted or (cloaked or chopped or chinked or choked or champed) in a Brain Idea of green to becoming as of Yestayear’s Day where I was, where it was I was and they were, but it was then now that they all departed amid guffaws and sly winks, (diffuse and rising) for who could have known the Destiny of texture (a storm of protest) in the wildest child’s wild wild dream: but soon these things vanished as they took tea in the Arbitorium, if only they knew what that was...and 'where has Mother gone?' is another query kept nagging at him, again he wanted so much to say it but Nothing came he couldn’t get it out, he he he he, and she she she, and they they they; which was a, a, a- a Book-Poem he’d found almost by chance in his travels by a Black Woman (fascinating collages): and She is or was one of the many in the Human-Machine-Struggle, caught in the "drive to create" and to be: to Be, and to share, maybe, as if (despite togetheryness) we had some kind of sweet autonomous future: and as if  The Age of Reason was (again, and rearing, and) upon us, in the Light of Sweet Evil: the general Gotterdammerung: and the frienzied tinkle tonkle of the Golden Ring Forgers): whose leitmotifs pursue us venomously as we gallop further and Further away from Our Selves (clutching the Technical Books): and get caught in more and more complex cliches of such Enchantful tapestry (filamental and fine), that the crassest Money Man of them, say, or a cynic Philistinic: of such an outlook, might even (time, eternally busy and grumpy Time, permitting) stop; or pause; and was that a tear (or a hint of a tear, or faint pause or a subtle sussurration) we espied struggling at the corner of his mien (or more correctly, his visage, his face, or (more specifically) his eye)?  But, nay, we were at a loss, and The Things kept smiling. Eerily.  Of course, even those who had wished for Conclusion in a rented domicile, had long since been dissolved inside the (perhaps not wheat brown) dream of the Eternal Madman; as if we knew what we were talking about but it doesn’t matter there is hope it is said despite the Oceans of sand and brick and dust and because of breath, and they set forth again seeking something whose Truth could never be verified, but no one objected, in this most objectless subjective unsubjective of All (too, or two) un or non-un (Un)human (and polyvocal) Universe’s; [to be continued……]…it was then horribly the excruciatingly Terrify Scream (prior to which) was heard Never such a terrible erotic sound to J-