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Thursday, November 30, 2017
ich drehe mich um
Mein Leben ist ein Mangel von Lust. Mein einsiger Druck ist Not. Verrotener Tier, der seit lange ins Frigo sitzt, ist bis zum Trosten in Mikrowelle gekocht. Ich tue Dummheit nicht ganz aber hält Meine zurück, während ich profitiere von Die der Anderen.
¶ 10:29 am 0 Comments
Wednesday, November 29, 2017
return to depart
i fall back into the small town rhythm quickly it is only the weather that kills me walking in all this cold and damp i bunker into the cave an insanity creeps in through cracks where otherwise sun would shine and magda comes tomorrow at ten i am still unsure what it is she is going to do here
¶ 10:24 am 0 Comments
Tuesday, November 28, 2017
i am going to break your heart
the selfish desire takes over and i cannot feel your feelings any more they are just too far away love plus time minus distance i just want to relive falling in love over and over and over again an unsustainable disposable hit parade of emotional mess an emotional stagnation a modern man relegating relationships to the satisfaction drive like a piece of chocolate a biophysical reaction chemistry without equations reaching out a hand to catch a bouquet a reaction
¶ 10:15 am 0 Comments
Monday, November 27, 2017
Friday, November 24, 2017
ombra
a story comes full circle with the storyteller's life dropping in on the story after it has finished trying to reconstruct it from the pieces and the heresy meeting the characters words and phrases flying in full unfathomable glory only falling into place within the framework of all that has past so the storyteller inadvertently lands in the burnt out cave of the beginnings indirectly filling in the blanks that lend weight significance context meaning singularity to the previous gnarls and snarls of anguish in the aftermath of success and self destruct
greek time is a spiral
venetian time is a tide
london is lunch time
¶ 10:19 am 0 Comments
greek time is a spiral
venetian time is a tide
london is lunch time
Thursday, November 23, 2017
Wednesday, November 22, 2017
il paradiso perduto
we sit ourselves down at pizzeria la biennale and find ourselves between two languages not of our own tongue. is this whole world just one prison yard? are some of us prisoners and others prison guards? age never meant much to me but some call me old whilst others call me young. when i ask how much longer can this last, it don't mean i'm asking for the cheque or wanting to get out of here fast, but an odd expression used to remark new ground unfamiliar and just a little terrifying. i am so easy sitting with you now, together after so long apart, i don't think twice before letting loose these words a-flying. i'm not lieing. what's the use?
the waitress comes over and asks us to choose, but i've already made my choice.
¶ 9:39 am 0 Comments
the waitress comes over and asks us to choose, but i've already made my choice.
Tuesday, November 21, 2017
dylan thomas dead at 39
if i could be everyman what an exception that would make me
to tread in every step that has been trod without a shod of regret
knowing full well that each be a repetition of a nothing new
and in the last hesitate but for a moment in the thought of a place
unstood yet ready for a fresh footfall of my own before landing
on the second round in the shoes of everyman in and out of every town
¶ 9:10 am 0 Comments
to tread in every step that has been trod without a shod of regret
knowing full well that each be a repetition of a nothing new
and in the last hesitate but for a moment in the thought of a place
unstood yet ready for a fresh footfall of my own before landing
on the second round in the shoes of everyman in and out of every town
Monday, November 20, 2017
say i do
two months apart two months together run the surprise the anger the fight the confusion the reconciliation the ritual the routine the desperation the fear the love the sex the boredom the planning the reminiscing and departure intense compact efficiency emotional economical ecclesiastical ergonomic date wed die
together
next
¶ 8:47 am 0 Comments
together
next
Friday, November 17, 2017
bi polaroid isle
islands of extremity. sitting here alone mulling over one's own depression or here with another a lover a slow train burning midnight oils what more does one need but good food great wine and a cave. one could die down here in a heaven or hell, just depends on which day is the passing away.
¶ 8:32 am 0 Comments
Thursday, November 16, 2017
just go out and drink!
follow your social commands. if they cannot come and grab you then they scream it from afar anyway they can. all those new gadgets that keep in contact are an enemy to the island. with no where else to go the tides are to be kept. there is a lot of water in this dog body.
¶ 8:16 am 0 Comments
Wednesday, November 15, 2017
the entertainment
She was the kind of fatally pretty and nubile wraith like figure who glides through the sweaty junior-high corridors of every nocturnal emitter's dreamscape. Hair that Green had heard described by an overwrought teacher as 'flaxen'; a body which the fickle angel of puberty had visited, kissed and already left, back in sixth; legs which not even orange Keds with purple-glitter-encrusted laces could make unserious. Shy, iridescent, coltish, pelvically anfractuous, amply busted; a vision in a sun dress and silly shoes.
¶ 7:59 am 0 Comments
Tuesday, November 14, 2017
open mind
there are cracks in my mind through which the sun does shine,
where the rain seeps
and the wind turns the mills,
which grind the wheat for the bread that I eat.
¶ 7:50 am 0 Comments
where the rain seeps
and the wind turns the mills,
which grind the wheat for the bread that I eat.
Monday, November 13, 2017
xena
i crossed the road to distance myself from the pigeon fight over breakfast crumbs and dreamt on what life would be like if i could have it there high above the main street set back by a terrace garden when someone asks for my name to write on a gift. here is your keepsake, souvenir, memory of a moment; remember me for that.
no one is called xena these days.
¶ 7:34 am 0 Comments
no one is called xena these days.
Friday, November 10, 2017
jamias content à venise
and what are you doing here 'discovering a city', like what is that going to do for you? what is there left to discover in any city let alone this tourist infested stinking island?
has the rain stopped?
i hear the air raid signal.
that's the high water alert. grab your gumboots.
my feet are wet.
¶ 7:25 am 0 Comments
has the rain stopped?
i hear the air raid signal.
that's the high water alert. grab your gumboots.
my feet are wet.
Thursday, November 09, 2017
you go to my head
it is as if this day never started. a dimly lit room in which i woke only to dream you were beside me again.
¶ 3:39 am 0 Comments
Wednesday, November 08, 2017
look up and to the left
i rubbed the catnip into the rat and dragged it across the kitchen floor. uga and duchess fought over that minted cushion of cotton for half hour or more. they wore themselves out and then stretched out upon the couch. belly up purring themselves to sleep, do they dream of tiny cotton stuffed sheep? in a couple of hours i will open a tin and empty the contents onto a plate. all the rodents out there are fed poison.
¶ 3:03 am 0 Comments
Tuesday, November 07, 2017
Zeitpuffer
why sleep these last hours together? you hold your eyes open and they hold mine open. i do not speak thoughtless words, for silence is louder. behind the silence we hear those sounds we know are there but never hear. the click of heels on stone. the wash of water against the fundament. the skittle of a rat and the padding of a cat. the light breeze across the lagoon hastens our pace toward the pontoon where we come face to face with ourselves waiting for a boat.
¶ 12:00 pm 0 Comments
Monday, November 06, 2017
p.s. i love you
what am i to say, the same things happen every day. i take up a pen and take it slow, to write you and let you know. today you left and went your way, it started to rain, there's just nothing else to say.
¶ 11:30 am 0 Comments
Thursday, November 02, 2017
der Vorleser pg.173
I reread the Odyssey thinking, as I did in my school days, that it was a story of homecoming. But it is not a story of homecoming. How shall the Greeks, who knew that one cannot stand in the same river twice, believe in a homecoming? Odysseus did not return to stay, but to depart. The Odyssey is a story of movement; meaningful and pointless, successful and flawed.
¶ 3:43 am 0 Comments
Wednesday, November 01, 2017
der Vorleser pg.67
Wenn bei Flugzeugen die Motoren ausfallen, ist das nicht das Ende des Flugs. Die Flugzeuge fallen nicht wie Steine vom Himmel. Sie gleiten weiter, die riesengroßen mehrstraligen Passagierflugzeuge eine halbe bis Dreiviertelstunde lang, um dann beim Versuch des Landens zu zerschellen. Die Passagiere merken nichts. Fliegen fühlt sich ausgefallen Motoren nicht anders an als bei arbeitenden. Er ist leiser, aber nur ein bißchen: Lauter als die Motoren ist der Wind, der sich an Rumpf und Flügeln bricht. Irgendwann sind beim Blick durchs Fenster die Erde oder das Meer bedrohlich nah. Oder der Film läuft, und die Stewardessen und Stewards haben die Jalousien geschlossen. Vielleicht empfinden die Passagiere den ein bißchen leiseren Flug sogar als besonderes angenehm.
¶ 2:53 am 0 Comments