Among other things, I gave three tarot readings today (there was a fourth but it didn't count) and they were all a little too simple. Maybe the fact is the cards, after I neglected them for so long, wanted to ease me back into things, to encourage me. This is a sentience I'm glad to allow them, though sentience is absolutely no sign of prophecy. I'm no crystal scryer to scrape from the current truth a weather-eaten pallet of future-things.
No I won't bore you with the details. Nor will I recount for you the words we swirled in their dainty porcelain cups, left sitting there until they became stale, and the cups stained. We were not the cups, though we could've been. They were more like a challenge laid on the table. The words are out there, as they always are. Who dares to sip first? A cloud passes over the sun, or else we fire when the clock strikes one, so the sound might be buried.
No, I won't bore you with the details, I'll only write vague and poetic analogues until you give up and go home. Go on, git. We don't like yer kind 'round here, nosir. Well I left a long time ago. And that's how we got here: A world without truth, with only empty words, decorating the room like smoke and steam. Like the smoke that rises from scented candles, like the steam that rises from her open mouth as she fingers herself in the bathtub. Who? It doesn't matter. They all do it.
I've recently acquired a book of portuguese poetry (with but 1 translator), a book of african poetry (with various translators from around the world) and a book of surrealist poetry (mostly written in english, with a few translations). I skipped out on more important books because I wish to look finally at some things that have completely avoided my noticing. Whatever they are.
I didn't have time to scour the racks (a sort of pun, if you'll humor me) for a body more worth torturing, for Anais Nin who I've been craving or for Verlaine's unseemly verse. I haven't read enough. Not nearly.
Here, drink this, it will help your fever. You say you're healthy, but there's a heat coming from you like nothing I've ever felt. See the sore on my right hand? You scalded the roof of my mouth, go, shower in ice. Bring the former planet down, let it melt in the heat, let it suffocate us with its cold, vibrant air. Let the hideous Texas summer end, and with it, all these immense depressions. After all, dents like these can't be explained by impact alone, there must be a constant weight creating them, logically it must be the summer grasses with their charcoal roots. Cast Pluto down. Down down down.
No I won't bore you with the details. Nor will I recount for you the words we swirled in their dainty porcelain cups, left sitting there until they became stale, and the cups stained. We were not the cups, though we could've been. They were more like a challenge laid on the table. The words are out there, as they always are. Who dares to sip first? A cloud passes over the sun, or else we fire when the clock strikes one, so the sound might be buried.
No, I won't bore you with the details, I'll only write vague and poetic analogues until you give up and go home. Go on, git. We don't like yer kind 'round here, nosir. Well I left a long time ago. And that's how we got here: A world without truth, with only empty words, decorating the room like smoke and steam. Like the smoke that rises from scented candles, like the steam that rises from her open mouth as she fingers herself in the bathtub. Who? It doesn't matter. They all do it.
I've recently acquired a book of portuguese poetry (with but 1 translator), a book of african poetry (with various translators from around the world) and a book of surrealist poetry (mostly written in english, with a few translations). I skipped out on more important books because I wish to look finally at some things that have completely avoided my noticing. Whatever they are.
I didn't have time to scour the racks (a sort of pun, if you'll humor me) for a body more worth torturing, for Anais Nin who I've been craving or for Verlaine's unseemly verse. I haven't read enough. Not nearly.
Here, drink this, it will help your fever. You say you're healthy, but there's a heat coming from you like nothing I've ever felt. See the sore on my right hand? You scalded the roof of my mouth, go, shower in ice. Bring the former planet down, let it melt in the heat, let it suffocate us with its cold, vibrant air. Let the hideous Texas summer end, and with it, all these immense depressions. After all, dents like these can't be explained by impact alone, there must be a constant weight creating them, logically it must be the summer grasses with their charcoal roots. Cast Pluto down. Down down down.
Labels: truth
# posted by Max Roderick on Monday, July 27, 2009 
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