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B. Gleed |
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One I am inconsequential, a little thing. A mite, a flea, a nit, a moment gone and gone again, yesterday, in an hour. I am here and mean nothing, nothing. You reinforce this for me. ' I am pretense, and you are pretense. A lying man, the retch professore of my morality instructs from great books written yesterday, looks sideways at himself in hall mirrors, can't remember how it feels to be real. I'm seen rounding the corner many times a day but it's a pretense, like I need to know what's out there but there's nothing, nothing. It's all based on nothing. It's like the very concept, every attitude, all a fake. ' You are nothing different, nothing new nothing that lasts, nothing. Again and again and again I see it in your eyes, in your hair, between your thighs the way you kill me bit by bit the way I kill you every day when I get up in the morning. Everybody drowns in the pond and the ripples roll toward all shores. ' I have fear, dread, stasis, a cudgle, a sword, a hammer. Like my head is ripped off my shoulders like a dead body in a car crash, all glass and broken chrome like I want to sleep all day and drink until I'm sick and dirty. I want to drink until I'm full and have to pee. That's reality. Freedom I name it certainty because I can grab on to it can get a handle- I go walking on the prairie seeking everything while airplanes bound for elsewhere go be-bop do-wop across the sky- I seek elevations on going-to-the-sun mountain- I seek visions where I can orbit the earth in the old way, like mercury- I name it light- I name it as I choose, as big as I like or as small- |