Deja vu becomes increasingly persistant. Increasingly disorientating. Time folds in on itself. Replicates itself in dreams and reverie. Backtracks and sidetracks.
Eddies in time.
It is the proper moment to repeat ourselves. To take up the mantra.
I am an idiot, I am an idiot, I am an idiot, I am an idiot......
Everything hangs in the balance
I'm sure you'll agree.
as hemispheres bicker amongst themselves, squabble for preeminence
God-zone issuing imprecations. Bestowing the golden light of myth on all the eye surveys/
The world attains an epic dimension and all acts are freighted with significance. Time is suspended.
One undulating moment.
Which the other rejects. Nonsense.
There's rubish everywhere, sordid...
No undertow of myth. Innocent of history.
A virgin present, devoid of past or possibility.
Demonic Parasites! Vermin!
Where do the limits of the possible lie? How much can be achived in this universe, under present historical conditions? How much is still up for grabs?
The whole lot, the entire thing
The game is still in progress
Every Move Counts.
There are some amusing, some would say absurd, corrallaries to this position. This is not an objection per se,
an observation merely. In the spirit of modern science. Not counter-argument.
Abusrdity is built into its very structure. The paradox is the basic unit. How could it be otherwise. Everything is built up from there.
All previous assumptions have been proven false. Update your software. Incompatible with new operating system.
an amusing diversion
Babylon voices, beyond time
I summon Burroughs, Rimbaud and the demonic Pound. Stern-headed Pound who stands in contrite silence offering his blessing by implication. Sadness behind the steel.
An invasive intuition, pickpockets the secrets from your heart
filches the intentions from your blinking eyes.
Lies are a futile defence. Easily disarmed.
Rimbaud piches Burroughs arse. Burroughs quite delighted. Struggles to stifle a smile. Pound looks nervous. Discreetly manuveres his back to the wall. Rimbaud notices of course. Notices everything. Does not expoit this unease, not yet, merely makes a mental note and smiles secretly.
Not ghosts. No, far from it. Very much alive. They have known one another for quite some time. Rimbuad runs a hand through hair stiff with wind and dust.
New energies are released. A new spirit is abroad.
Do you know who I am yet?
sing. mourn. laugh.
The interplay of two rays
Patterns which endure
Patterns which disintergrate.
Time curls up like a woodlouse
Not long left.\
adorn hair and bodies with mud and dead, skeletal leaves
announce the end times
prematurely, as it happens.
Vaudeville act in prison camp. Audience of laughing prison guards smoking cigerettes, sprawled on fold-up chairs.
Man in dog-suit chases buxom milk-maid. Masks escape attempt. A troupe of pantomine dames and men hampered by horse suits proceed through prison gates.
3 hours later in a forest glen the prisoners have divested themselves of their costumes and are sitting on fallen logs, having a giggle
"the Warden's going to flip his lid when he realises what's happened"