hagiography

the autogeography of a no/body

Feb 3

Blitzkrieg

Here lies in stuttering eyes:-

The man who looks in sleep as he might in death, providing he had fallen from a small height – arm bent, twisted above his head, careless limbs scattered like thrown cutlery.

Cotton dreamish sylph, blown in by winds not of my own desire.

He wakes and says “Nob … Can you pass the baccy and vaseline [laugh] … You're groaning like a creaky old boat.”

Small hiccup words for a disjointed wooden phase. I pick the lighter up off the floor with my foot, curling my toes.

Perhaps life can be explained in shap snots: three silver rings large enough to imprint their design on anyone's face; 'The Complete Poems of John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester'; my musical fascination triangulated by a balalaika I can't play; coffee stains and small designs, unerect, falsifying their oblivious entrance into consiousness.

Should it? Make sense?

He said, after Heidegger, “Words and language are not just shells into which things are packed for spoken and written intercourse. In the word, in language, things first come to be and are.”

I took film from the train window, arm always held at the same angle, fields of dreams and tangled metal. Bridges we call them, industry is how they define themselves. The scene slid in front of my eyes, rhythmised by an acknowledged and necessary forward motion. At journey's end the carriages disgorged their occupants to flow, in a peristaltic mass, along an anonymous platform. Wedged into the wall a V2 Rocket, provisioning memories of a continuous attack. Blitzkreig they called it, on both sides.

Here lies in stuttering eyes:-

The man who looks in death as he might in sleep, arm bent, twisted above his head, careless limbs scattered like thrown cutlery.

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