terça-feira, 22 de fevereiro de 2011

Faux Départs

Imagination dead imagine.
Imagine a place, that again.
Never ask another question.
Imagine a place, then someone in it, that again.
Crawl out of the frowsy deathbed and drag it to a place to die in.
Out of the door and down the road in the old hat and coat like after the war, no, not that again.
A closed space five foot square by six high, try for him there.
Couldn't have got in, can't get out, did get in, will get out, all right.
Stool, bare walls when the light comes on, women's faces on the walls when the light comes on.
In a corner when the light comes on tattered Syntaxes of Jolly and Draeger Praeger Draeger, all right.
Light off and let him be, sitting on the stool and talking to himself the last person.
Saying, Now here is he, no, Now he is here.
Try as well as sitting standing, walking, kneeling, crawling, lying, creeping, in the dark and the light.
Imagine light.
Imagine light.
No visible source, strong at full, spread all over, no shadow, all six planes shining the same, slow on, ten seconds to full, same off, try that.
Still his crown touches the ceiling, moving not.
Say a lifetime of walking crouched and drawing himself up when brought to a stand.
When it goes out no matter, start again, another place, someone in it, glaring, never see, never find, no end, no matter.

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