He sets out to write in prose with regular ragged columns
but because of the limits of the medium it becomes
a straggled verse. Correct reader, read it as prose.
It becomes thee, becomes me.
____________________It becomes the other thing called autobiography fiction. The song in the sound, the read in glance. Grace as the pace of things. A twisted inward eye hovering near its shum./ Is that so? Well, we see its porcelain glance. A repetition of fair and wheat. What does the word signify its fair wind a cutting .... bark barque bark embark...ragged
textile edge room the walknot interested in the 'professional look'this Elizabethan __ crooked sign posts hanging boardsthe washerwoman’s image sticks in the cornerother things every which way dont fit fickle 'somewhat' funkythe streets tackle wandering navigating eateries deathmud in the eyes of the scarves of the roadwayas they call it someshit space of wayfarerI am a painter so it's my studiomy studio not an exhibition.but what of the characters in it? they are in theother ones, the blogs of-fiction some otherplace I could put 'myself' 'my self-rempli'is it the plaguesniffing over there? the hurricane,a bastinado for your death.basta-basta sirrah there's hurriancoessnow blowing wind whistle siren masts crackling
in the city walls the whoring lanes are plenty
something lik
e this studio gripping its agescrooked lanes, filthy pedlars, jewel cunning thievesWrithing writhin’ moment. Not a breath to say. Always.all the way to heaven and back the heaveknot of the sent. the pixel something sonnet of the Easter pate.Knock your pate out lad! Lassie get thy hurly burlies over here,thy buttocks for a lover's knock!Have with you!Heave the say, a spent rabble roused night.A heave night. It is I, Thomas Nashe spreading his dubious wings,to spicken and span the sky.An angel covets my wings a flowerto raise a gracious lady laden withthe bucket of her love for me.A leman lady pucked to the fill to the Filling of her ISome sent for me. A critter in the breeze,a rumor of ships masting in the 'high' sky.angels and dust Aye, and the seven beholdtravelers of the sea.Come my capping eyeand see me. A traveler begrimes thee,a squadron in the moor the field milled with its lovingand yeare the translated you of yore.Berhymes thee.Come to my Dublin maskand Paris in the blogridden avenues thebedecked streets of my death, a funeral ingood Paris, of the kings and Lord hear my wish.O this is the dog's life. No? is it notthe live dog bark of the hammer I hear?what is it then? if not that?in this hush-hush space of mystudio and the understudy of the perspectiveI see hence in the crenelated towers,beveled window of the outside volume.Irish sun glitters in the jewel of its featNot the ordinary of language.Its feast a tripping sunas expected I go off in the tangent. a tempest.Tangenitalman that I am betimes a courteoussweet gallant goughing in the ring
---------------------------------
if that's the case then who are we? if the character's just handwriing what is the hunger
motivates rough bats, weak beat and sundered rhythm?
before each part, a wave pulling back whitecaps and the monsieur
appearing pairing his feet
in the rig high overhead is that the bearing coming right?
do you bear a dog's life Dublin?
are the ruelles your constant home? the dock offshores the beat the metal plate
fritter in the fin in the fold the man's seeking alliteration that bells the bottom ...
its rope carries winter's furthest body of its cold ricktus
love's not seen this name written on the necessity of moving
______________________________________You assume it was fiction but love's button
works by breaking sound barries movements, oracles, pedimented slum,
and rivered talks , breaking in the back, and the rough waves of pillow
breakage __ the rocks cut close, too close? maybe this way speaking's become dumb
and the hefted chair the black fright cant feel a willow to its knees
______________________________step to the side
_____________________________________A literal pause and hope
______________________________________________littoral to sun and weed
____________________________it comes falls by the side river bank and sided to the boat's lifting grifting |
All seamen wear buckets . In their pants. In their needs. Nervous as any friggin sun.
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