You can't see less than what is, lit but who lit
the fire? Moments, which
even the best of us
admit are exact, keep getting in the way. As
for the rest, it's nothing like it was. Looking
back to all that smouldering ...
The body of
the work, vulnerable as can be to fascination.
I recognise the debt. Its
accounts of Autumn,
its nurturing even this late of the entirely new.
Was there so much time?
Were diversions all
of a piece? Homecomings
are simply the start
and coming of age unsettles.
Imagine what a
field feels sorting us out.
Not to generalise, rather make much of, look
closer, to be actually in touch.
Is it ever clear
enough, this settling of leaves beyond routine?
Out of the heart and sapwood.
Into the vein.
He smiled: it wasn't notoriety that followed, but
the zeitgeist, or whatever his last few friends had
concocted, twice removed ...
More by chance
than judgement, and by now unquestionably ill at
ease, he breezed through the challenge of snide
reviews to post up yet more ikons 'to a passing
age'. Did he think we'd
believe him, move to
rectify the fauly; it was a clinical space all right?
A fly in everybody's ointment.
So far as I can
tell, a healthy individual is active witness to rips
in 'the field'. Lucretius
knew it, he knew it too:
'continual presence' was colouring all the various
experiences he'd had the gall to steal. Thus: a
hectic lifestyle, asymmetry and whatever his pin-
hole camera cared to show, was to him no more
than manna from a steady sky.
Open and shut.
On the trail of the vanishing saint and all her
distinctly moth-eaten entourage.
What a game!
It's critical not to blame the sun in your eyes.
So role playing gets no better, so outcomes'll
have to be put on hold?
They say they've had
heaps of correspondence on the subject, but I'm
no different to any other student of the abyss.
At least not with the charges levelled. I'd rather
count my blessings out loud and then some. If
it helped, I could even offer to work my passage.
Anyway, it's the relationship that counts, those
indisputable flashbacks Ð the washed-up ark,
a city of doves and fountains, somebody wasting
forever on the move and
omniscience, down the market, is packaged like
a '2 for 1'. As soon as
it's sorted, I'll be off
to a globalised 'last estate', think of the mileage.
Songs of Innocence can watch the event on Sky.
With reference to anecdote, please don't keep me
on edge or indulge in too many highlights. Dusk
is better, but I tend to miss it, dealing with yet
another viral off the wall.
I've seen some tremendous changes and not a few
failures. If populations
happen to crash, say 50%
for pipistrelles, it's as likely it's down to us, to
backstage pleasures and misdirected light. Today
I'm pushing at the limits, clearing out the last
of my latterday plaints: what now for immaculate
locations and the pledge to linger over a myth?
Parties cut nightmare to the bone. Instead of
cracking the jury, they're mobbing the press, so
you have to go some. Never
mind the slogan.
Love's definitely market rich, if still not cleared
entirely of racketeering; what once was mystery
has become a currency in hock.
the best of flames, but men-at-arms get burned.
A return to how things used to be. Add a dash
of necrophilia. If you're
easily put off, don't
make a meal of it Ð it's fashion after all. You
know what audiences think about illicit relations.
So telling when a tenor belts it out with gusto!
Lyrics are one thing and memory's another. As
long as I live I'll not forget that coupling. One
party away as he was at war and destined never
to return. There's nothing
remotely true about
uplift in the gods. Just
because I'm carrying
a torch, it doesn't follow I can smoke them out.
Too little light will make an enemy of narrative.
Nothing's only too happy to see how it ends, no
matter what the kickbacks or how flagrante the
desire. It's geopolitical. It's so much hokum.
You call it human resources, I call it moonshine.
Where was I ... when not an
© Peter Dent