Saturday, June 6, 2009

écriture automatique à deux

It sounds as if it hurt this gracile lunatic movement like a woman in her first dress thinking, I must buy more make-up, my face is too large, my legs like a sausage hung up make me shrivel inside a cloth like spelt and seasoning which do not match my temperament of suddenness and swirling. Strike me a match, my head will fall and roll toward the door of the attic where I want to meet the one you have imprisoned there since the Days of Awe. You had it always held up there as a great white hope, a dawning on our faces. The water of life splashes my arse, burning and brilliant beneath the salt foam of life. I would not have it otherwise except the forced mania of the crater, a moon of peril. Bite it off at the root. The soil is full of beetles and rats wear fancy costumes wanting to be crocodiles and appearing in the form of fluorescent lizards in t-shirts of blue with red stitching. Wallingford is a town of coffee where matrons wobble a gesture of bonfemmie because their plants have grown well that year of their domestic symphony. At the time I had no idea what would happen. My years were all green and bending in the wind of the ventilators on the hills of a mechanical tide. The wind was elsewhere. But we were visited by the creature green as glass, little scarlet nothing. She held our hands and said, "Don't cry, the fortune is not yet in store." Then she vanished and lay in our eyes as any creature does that disappears. She was a grey slope on the downs of disparity. She walked off in a huff, trailing tears of tomorrow...

--DTH and CCL

1 comment:

Emma Gini said...

do i lay in your eyes?
am i the fish of your ocular ocean?