A sudden silence sucks the air into the centre of itself. Birdsong marks the periphery.
a mysterious lake at dawningtide, at its edges, reeds, all ghosty in the mistiness. Crake call across the water, all lonesome and folorn. Well, it’s a bit like that. Or imagine >
The ghost of a gondolier singing arias which float all spooky and mournful down canals at moony midnight, More Mist! The waters part V-Like and murmur, yet there is no gondola to be seen. Sweet sad tenor/ courageous with love, lament! Fill the air with song!
Mayhap and might-of-beens and all paths never taken. It’s around 1974.
Grease Sauna Slop Out, it’s a Sweat Lodge. Get it down you soak it up and smear it
All over yourself- It’s our custom. To refuse, or even to wrinkle a nose or cock a sceptical eyebrow would cause everlasting offence. My paper mask? It has a ritual function. Its markings mean something. Its meanings mark something. Time wounds and livid scars. Ruptures in history, which is to say, continuity. One thing leading inexorably to another. Miracles mostly, of ambivalent value.
Others come and go, morons mostly, some grinning with dumb malice.
Don’t make eye contact.
This was a respectable place at one time, then the rot set in. We’ve watched it
fall to pieces about us. We wouldn’t leave. Oh no we wouldn’t go. It’s home. It knows us now. If we left it would follow us, like chewing gum stuck to a shoe.
We ghouls would grin it, we like it gruesome. A taste for the macabre and lashing of blood. It hangs around on moors at midnight. Hearken, my heart’s not spoken yet. >
O how it sighs
Ahhhhhh and uuwwwhhhhoh
It’s the speech of the heart.
I like tongue speech best.
Orality. It’s audible.
The suck and slap and slurp of it the groans and swift ejaculations.
It’s wet and it whistles.
It’s plosive in patches, those parts I puff out
And how prettily, your cheeks my love, are peaches
If it’s fruit you’re after I’ve a prime pair of plums
Jam them you saucy tinker, squash them to sticky pulp, I’ve plenty more fruitful than you.