Thursday, May 28, 2009

Reelin' in the Strato-Cumulous

Steely Dan Skies

We are not, we are not pitiful sparrows, everything evens out.
Is that so strange?

Whatever bobbles, bobbles up. Like, or as, revels
of precocious baby fauns we experience pure joy of
ivory and nature. Everything evens out. Eventually,
the street began to twitter, silencing Rupert, for a while.

Double glazing subdues the howl of our Sargasso Street. And
Hilda? well, she was sitting by the writing table. A long, grey while.

Ever wandered into a dead, aimless calm
where nothing ever happens?
Édith Piaf, at rest, tends to remain at rest.

Time wounds all heels. Masochism has brutal regs, but, I mean,
c’mon: everybody hurts. Surely, then, the richness of our struggle
elevates us, makes us wine. Supine. Supreme! Siempre fresco.
Acceptable pain lurks/ on the outer fringes of love.

These manoeuverings can be monitored, though
they seem to drift, languidly, in a diffusion of tangerine colors
and ornithological similes,
but, after all, they are what they are. Chamomile tea.
Coffee spoons, the quick/ and-the-dead.

A saucepan shadows the wall, Your mind makes almond trees
disassemble. Crack/ like thunder. Everything evens out. Agh!

Waiting for Hilda, with kind of, an... Olympian detachment,
Rupert went to bed and read Proust.


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