And when I do die, who will throw rose petals before the coffin as it is born up the street in a horse-drawn wagon? The light in the hemlocks is always new if one is looking carefully enough. I mean, yeah, psilocybin's great but have you ever tried growing and harvesting your own spuds? Sex when you can't tell what the other is thinking or whether what you're doing is working. Sun on the far hills as if it's been away from us for years or am I only just figuring out sleep. Putting away the guitars.
At midnight I lay down on cool grass in moonlight and ask myself what happened. Remember nonviolence?
All monuments are blind. Male psychology matters but only in certain contexts, most of which are becoming less frequent. Train tracks buried in snow.
What did you say the mystery was again?
Rewatching the trailer for The Omen which was an early confirmation that my suspicions about evil weren't wrong. Society, man.
Chrisoula asks why certain bottles on the hay loft window sills are set the way they are and laughs when I tell her it's beyond what can be explained. Trout gathering into schools, disappearing into a single point of light high up in the Milky Way, that semen-colored spiral stream of stars rivering the cosmos.
A sound tea makes being poured, largely unreplicated since the nineteenth century. Monsters we are, monsters we are becoming, monsters we will never be again. When the sentences are short it's because they're being squeezed through a rainy aperture.
Speak, rose bush, and I will do thy bidding.
Post a Comment