Working hard at it she she claimed, beavering away, making coffers and indiscreet lagoons with yellow sundries from the ash cart windfall— a thankless task but someone somewhere must step up to the plate, try their very best, give their all, one hundredth of a percent at a time— so a thousand beavers would sort it if they were so inclined would they?
Downhill racers struggle without gravity, what fog feels like hanging in the callow strikes me, those muddy cattle look opaque in this light, like their doing untimed cryptic crosswords, me I stick to sticks and stones, pretty square some say, cubists so they claim but I know the type, grave robbers and enchantresses with altitude sickness…
Glassworks breaks me up and leaves me shatter in tiny pieces like a lake of prisms after rain, a ripple passes through her, where has my drive, my desire gone? No point in asking, all is done for training porpoises to jump hoops and technobabble…give up the shooting match altogether, she thought, I’ll never leave this place, just push soft unforgiving walls— words really haunt
She who sleeps sinnest not, I was told on waking, downstairs a dog runs through the smoking room, we climb the steppes in bandaged boneless feet, get spotted seeking Shelter from the Storm in a little hilltop village called Pat Buchanan for some unknown treason, the Yanks were around a lot in those old cold war days…
Just put it all together, two by two. Wonders then will never cease, it’s just that you won’t notice now you know the knack of it. Swing and roundabouts will conspire, playgrounds caked in cake, a robin shits on the aspidistra. Look what happens when the window’s are left open?