EschatonIIISequence contd.

eschatonIIIsequence i p9-10 contd

I must let go of my lover. Put down the will-to-consume and learn from a distant other.

The other may be right there, looking at you, before your face. The trick is to see the metaphysical gap lying like an elephant, unspoken, lying down between

them. I’ve nothing to say, most the time I look for sleep and an REM

Dreams come back when you go straight, the most vivid dreams you wouldn’t wait to wake from.

But you crawl back to them wailing all the same: rather a melting solid than an abysmal game.

I have an empty room I can pay for on offer. That alone as a landing mat keeps me in the endgame.

I will not beat myself up on the issue of repetition. It was a module back on my MA so I’m inclined to leave it.

I left university alright, but I fucked their shit up. I fucked the scroll and more: I fucked a lecturer.

Bonfire night and Halloween have been gone, just a couple of days. I hate this world on its strings.

I struggle to get through perception and its down-ticking hours; I hate the present with wings.

Tomorrow is like another world: I don’t know what it wants or what it will compel me into.

Three pages a day is not a target, it is all that I have. I’ll make the rest up someday. Each day

I write and once again the quiet of the whole world wakes me. And takes me to places you wouldn’t go

To think about what you are saying: do you know how hard that is?

Dear God at least do not send me to the realm of fatties.

I want to stay pure but I break: punctuated like the rings of Saturn.

These are the words of a flake, dedicated to dessication.

Economics and art are where they make something arise from nothing.

The bank is a factory, as is my heart, as is the bent growing Elm tree.

The Tao or the middle path or ‘way’ doesn’t question things, it has grown sick of thinking.

The ‘how’ of the Indians might speak to their accustomed love of drinking.

And that the Aboriginal genocides get no press nor music; is a shame and a stain on my kind.

Thinking and Being are closely aligned.

By thinking I do not mean long processes of words and reasoning. I mean intuiting through to a fault

Thinking is spare as seasoning.

Writing’s a kind of thinking undermined: I am involved in treasoning.

Four pages a day isn’t bad for someone lost and with a life shrinking.