Saturday, December 15, 2007
To sleep:
disappearing rough razor sharp like mad cat and hard music the telling of Time like a cloak, a Smokescreen. Under all that actual Smoke:
chain-smoking,
chain-fighting,
chain-loving.
posted by mira 1:26 pm
chain-smoking,
chain-fighting,
chain-loving.
I’m still chasing hurricanes. All the electric of the world couldn’t change it. There are still lost, non-existent boys looking for tired cafés and winding overheard fans that are only capable of circulating noise. Somewhere in somebody’s head, they are sitting in a quiet corner at a little round wooden table, smoking and flipping through Goethe in Spanish, with a little cup of coffee at their elbow. They still smile nonchalantly at strangers and quote Marx like the Bible. Their shirt-sleeves still all rolled up like a question.
posted by mira 1:26 pm
