Monday, February 7, 2011

SILT
VOL. 3

urban stalagtites stagger across the crag. the milk shudders under a passing wind, bringing a few more to the lime burner. men without bones and other haunting inhabitants of the wide, weird world. drawling falls onto pocket fin faces, the murlocks, oh we know of them in the blue and the dark in the underwater caves with the islands in the inky black. chomp waters for the red head girl. rushes things and i know better. a year ago maybe, but now no. horny freckles get the better of me. willows, winds and waters. pockets form rivers which dance under a breezy sun. ho ho ho, i love the snow. japanese gentlemen stand up please, do not speak of the little known bremen cluster across ports unknown. increasing in length, its forward compartment appeared to us as a small thimble blister and we all fell to the grasses to hear the small music of the earth. press the ear against the ground and hear the sound of the earth rotating: crag crimple and tim thimble. thumble, thimble, thamble, drumble, droblo, have those who flew in the immediate vicinity heard the passing vibrations emanating from the blue planet? capture them with this box, then give up the ghost. piece o crumb on me mouth. that is mars, you know. that little white speck up there. kind of red, isn't it? a bit of a hue around the edges. more so the thunderclap, the clipping brills on her beek. like i didn't know already that ducks could shed tears. i mean, come on, discussing the ethics of centaur slavery on a bench atop a goblin workship. the virtual world seen to the horizon, but rendered as we go, spaces slightly infinite. bunker mansion. manageable future."the last epic of a world beleaguered by eternal night and by the unvisageable spawn of darkness" - the night land "lost in a haunted wood" -auden treavers and traumas: nostalgia for the future. that inevitable doubt that begins to slink its way around my bedroom at night. crawls up under the carpet to slither around at my feet. hunched over my sleeping body. the trees, the trees, beware of these. the plinks of liquid dropping in my bedroom basin. the spring and the autumn resonators. bring me the copper one and the brass one. to find the right frequency. the 60hz hum. the crackle pops of the 1200hz range, where the land turns to green and black. dimensions hollow, proportions minimal. complex ideas rendered to simple lines and dots. truly, the night world, the night world, the night world inside my machine. the misty moor beginner poem. all ideas have their beginning in these kernels. these bitter little shells containing the juicy fruit within, squeezed between my tightly clenched fist. bear with me here. oh, hold on, i swear i have a point. darting, pushing, can you follow these patterns, do they have a traceable trajectory from your vantage? can you triangulate it or something? all i see is the meandering chaos; the byproduct of a mind who has trouble constructing something meaningful. ah! maybe you got me. but a little burnishing and we'll be fine.

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