Friday, May 21, 2010


the id in this world is a lively image of creation but disorderly ... not a natural reflection therefore limited ... but a rebellion though futile against such limits ... not just a bend in the line or a depression in the plane but something there broken and something not there missing ... these are breaks especially the second for which there is no repair ... no wonder on approaching them we think it is the end ... but this is the life of impulse it begins again all over ... too soon ... and where it is an end the survivors turn north or south as quickly as they with their dead eyes can ... the past is dead we make it so by turning away they'd be saying if disdain allowed ... this though is too busy for reflection ... explosive by the minute or as quick a beat the skin will allow the hummingbird heart sustain ... the water's boiling each bubble bursting with impatience to see a real final end ... but this is the world of limit against limit ... the blood pulses against the vessel walls fists pounding

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