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[15 Oct 2009|11:54am] |
I've given my notebooks enough love. Today it is raining. My hands are cold as usual in my bed. Kitchen sounds echo from the outside in differentiating nothing from appliances to construction. It's hard to move. My ovaries are at war with each other. I always consider this, in a Marxist sense, to be a great blood shedding revolution. O how I long to be somewhere quiet, to be muffled by the cottonous consistency of trees, hunch backed willows longing in the wind. I finished my new piece yesterday. This (not writing, but posting) is my ephemeral refuge from melancholy, or rather,the acknowledgement of my consciousness of melancholy through consciousness of feeling- a juvenile stage in ABSOLUTE KNOWLEDGE, let us never end with self-idolatry...blowing kisses to Hegel from my pillow.
Poem of Longing For Igor Lesage
Coming to, count four walls One, three, the puerile frith Between opening eyes And seeing. Wiry light befalls the Hemlock
Does glaze the iris Of my fevered gaze. There, on the stool Old ink once was Speaking Now quiets itself
In an abstract Frontispiece. Shh, stifling wind The unwavering carnifex Purloigns the mercy From ripening
Slavish fruit Shh, stifling wind Wears lead From the ground In an iron Mantilla-
To feel restricted is The wind's secret to life.
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