ขั้น ตอน การ สมัคร w88 _รับ เงิน คืน w88 _ดาวน์โหลดw88

“…and you are perfect in your lonely way”
John Barlow

HOW SEEN THEN. AS SMALL, A SOLE FIGURE LONG DISTANT, SINGLE SHADE ACROSS A STRETCH OF WIND DRY GRASS. AND MOVING BUT BARELY, AS GOOD AS CRAWLING, EACH STEP THE SAME, EACH DRY SHUFFLE SO LIKE THE OTHERS. FOR THERE WILL BE OTHERS; HAVE BEEN SO MANY AS NOT TO BOTHER. UNCONCERNED IF THE STRIDE IS LONG OR THE GAIT HAS BOUNCE. NO SENSE, WHEN THE DISTANCE REMAINS. FROM WHITE TO WHITE, SO LITTLE BETWEEN.

now one as if to open early open or not soon enough but all found colour know blind colour sight thick with seeing and soon forgotten as good as closed as not to rise or bother such a bother not to trouble as soon held soft in the bright or lie stiff on the limb-twined turf well then stiff knowing the dumb ache of numbness the too much hoped for brilliance whence the wither comes good as cold the slowing blood pulse down to a static hum could be but too much to ask the jaw still jawing gnawing yet but no longer prayer mere cud of word thought to be chewed upon spew in the dirt then to graze freely roam about muzzle in the mud crawl on and lick the sod no no longer cold long gone that the warmth too but whence the suffering the unfelt pain the old forgotten long to close down at last the final lid but dead sight seen a little closer now almost gone the further cry

A MURMUR. A STUMBLE. TONGUE DRAGGING WITH THE SOLES. AS GOOD AS BLIND, IN THE DARK; BUT NOT. WOULD DO JUST AS WELL, BE THE SAME, IF ALL LIGHT OUT. WOULD THEN STILL STAMMER, SHUFFLE; HESITANT SHUFFLE, TO BEAR THE WEIGHT, AS ON ALL FOURS. TO GROPE ALONG WITH FOOT AND TONGUE. MURMUR, BABBLE, BANTER, SHIFT.

half a wit’s end left long ass haul of spit and spittle then lingering dies down mere trickle of a fib all hardly so same as always stumble from the day born static colour to knock against grind the jaw ‘til smooth the gums syllables dribbling down to chin the fists long since slack elbows rigid to the quick old bone creaking but hardly so since now as well been so from first initial totter the original crawl dry rasp of skin against the sticks wail of bone against its own ‘til came the shroud to muffle all gag the flesh stifle and dampen the heart’s caterwaul but then the echo about the drivel buggered spit as one approaches nears the hollow in which it rests ‘til final muzzle strapped and that is that but a long ass haul might just as well

TO WHERE THEN. AS NOT IN WHITE, WHAT BETWEEN. ONE IS DRAWN; NO NEED OF COLOUR. SO MANY STEPS SO LIKE THE OTHERS, TO RAIL UNBROKEN; A LINE BEHIND, AS STRETCHING BEFORE IS THAT LONG DISTANT. MANY STEPS, MUCH MUDDLED BREATH, HAVE LEFT THEIR MARK; IF COULD BUT LOOK, YET SEEMS CANNOT. THE GAZE DULL, SOLE SHADE GREY. EYES NOT OPEN, BUT NOT QUITE SHUT. HEAD BURIED, NECK STIFF, FALL OF WORD, SHROUD OF THOUGHT.

if could but find come tell of wings and there to end but can’t and so this endless sense drugged whisper of a stolen need lips pressed to the dirt sole comfort no other not now perhaps what never was merely dumb breath frosting the pain but weary the wind persistent tedium of forget ‘til whittled down to a tender throb the gentle thud of pristine plunger recurrent drone unspoken one as good as flesh to these blind hands dumb sight of bone between the three dark and rising still all untold as heart retorts sends quiver to the suckled thumb still moist with spittle beneath the clouded one after other until no more can do no more than

TO WHITE. FEET HEAVY WITH WEIGHT OF LONGING, DRAG THE MUDDLED BREATH. STUMBLING LONG, FROM WHITE THROUGH THAT WHICH LIES BETWEEN. AN ENDLESS STRETCH, UNWRITTEN LINE, AS YET UNTAKEN. ALL THE WHILE THE MURMUR AND HESITANT SIGHTLESS GAZE UPON THE RECEDING DISTANT.

left now a sole sound to murmur in the mud what then begun upon but upright nevertheless ne’er a wind blow to knock it down still on long ass haul dreary hammer of failing hope the hands near lifeless only the feet with a swing from the hip all colour gone the early blur all faceless but the one and searching long interminable silence ‘til the hue returns what then what comes before dream yet spills the ink what scatters seed in field unseen crying out pale and blue for there it is long distant wonder despite the sun the need still rising forever on twisted bright at eventide within which waits a smile

THE LIGHT NEVER BRIGHTENING. THE DARK NOT THICKENING. THROUGH THE GRASS, THOUGH GOOD AS STOCK STILL. FEET NEVER FALTERING. UNCEASING TRUDGE FROM WHENCE THEY CAME. AND ON. AS IF TO WHITE. UNMARKED DRAGGING OF WORD AND BREATH. DISTANT RECEDING. PERHAPS NOT LISTENING. AS GOOD AS BLIND, AS WELL AS DEAF. BUT BABBLING ON, DRAGGING ON, THE DULL STALE BREATH. FROM WHITE TO RECEDING WHITE.

as soon as none without the face what say or make the blotch nuzzled in mud before the green or in need pale ‘til morning the three as good as want for each there rising what call sun or field if these eyes struck blind with whispers or unspoken blows clout of spittle echoing the thud long ass haul lingering the battered white of murmurs stripped groping pared until risen or pole strung behind the weeping there thrashing clouded a dying seed fondly recollects an ink which speaks no longer remembers scent which speaks of time but none too late return

 

Paris/Toronto, June 1989-February 1990