Of death. And even that crust of representation they belong to,
falling asleep in a bus station, uncertain that this was all
there is, all one waking reverie, the only hint of actual existence,
say an office window, is no longer your friend, but is itself
become abstract, squinting your eyes to find your way,
look further into the shower of years. Yes, you are small
but then who isn’t, brushing themselves off at the turnstile.
You have come a long way, that comforting refrain metallic
in your ear, click. click. and then the next thought finds you
happy and bursting with flowers, what a day it was munching
your greens on the verandah. The view from here is becoming
obtuse and you return to your garret, smoke filled, waving
a red book. So many tableaus to choose from, you exclaim,
wrenching a beret over flashing eyes. And this scene too
is growing wan, tired of watery soup and wavering arias.
Try to stay put in your plot the voice-over says, mapping
a course through several vistas, the day is punk and night
portends an expansive eclogue where you don your mittens,
put away your notebook, and unbind that lovely aspect of boy.