Let's compare notes. There are gaps between the teeth. Riddles. Screensavers
change like the seasons, the leaves of a calendar fluttering in a movie
montage whose purpose is to denote the passage of time. For I would serenade
with the flowers. I am a sort of scientist.
last chance saloon
I just want you to talk to me and let me know how you're getting on. We are
in a sort of natural cathedral illuminated by the sun and the weather. There
are only so many hours in the day. The bees covet their honey, the stars
examine their fragile margins with knitted brows. It was as if there was a
hidden centre of gravity we'd occasionally become aware of suddenly, in the
way you sometimes become aware of your own scent. And so we row like oarsmen
against the current or the wind.
You prefer a certain amount of change and variety and become dissatisfied
when hemmed in by restrictions and limitations. Sometimes you make an effort
to smile and nod at colleagues and acquaintances when you pass them by, while
other times you brood and mull over the big safe themes, mortality and beauty
and so forth. So the clever crosshatchings of (for want of a better word) the
soul throw their arms in the air and up and leave in favour of safe clean
industries in satellite towns. And we are left with bold acrylic tones. One
girds up one's loins. Pared down and pollarded. I never said I wanted all
a word in your ear
She came on the spur of the moment, and the hollow dreamers and politicians
all find subtle reasons for that, slender enough to pass through the eye of a
needle. She balances the estates like glass bottles on a wall; little mother.
Flimflam men, pre-emptively caught in a jam-jar, monkey business up their
sleeve. It will all come back to you in a moment. This conversation may be
The affair is an impenetrable chaos, and there is in the conduct of the
Empress a contradiction in which no one can understand anything. The argument
is as effervescent as the set of an adult film: the furniture hollow and
grainless, the light bleached as cheap white bread, merely a pretext for a
pretext. Last week a man married a dog to appease his ancestors. They say
that the lighthouse disappeared into the sea.
© Joe Dresner