5 May 2007

The Non-Union Pundit and Excoriated Self-Denials

And on Sunday mornings you will still be thinking
Of how the things didn't stay.

And we sweat. We scream our earthen names into cotton prisons and waste ourselves in fretful nightmares, wallowing and swallowing each successive success or failure. We get clean again in our bestial matters, non-inventing the non-invention but corkscrew-coining of clever terms; a non-advancement of human unintention, a dissolution made ghastly with our clever apparatus, liquid fat flicking at a wick. Not so hard to imagine that soap is made with lie and fucking made of hate. Birds are birds, dogs are dogs, cats are gods, men are clay, plaster, and plastered. I suppose that's what shaping is: this thin, taut feeling of the distance carved between the people we've always known.
Oh, and the sleeves feel more grim, more snide and sneer in the teeth they cuff, inhabiting the honorable whim of arm and arm in extolling slid-aside-grace. Like lockjaw, we're alone in our clenched forfeit, that soundless-sapping-suck of distended droll. And I am sorry, but not for this, this wee tear you shed for all things sung and suggested, long and longed for, this tiny shadow of a bridge we traced and chased our lives in exchange for. With the little capillaries wasting away, culling off species, capering the caperless, the tophat trend bearers; with all this we shuffle our die and cast our deck and weigh our adorned, weightless babies, our blessed dreams and scorned hope; with all this we come away as alien.
You phone home if you like. Ring again back into that void. Don't be surprised. Don't ever be surprised by this obvious obsequiousness. I am not surprised by this cup in the sink.

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