a lump of coal on the tongue, like a rogue dark star on the tip of an unlit epiphany. love has its Fools and all the carousels. but nothing can rehearse a reprisal… if the dream has neither fear of it or notion… all the implausible directions are just ‘round the way… pole vaulting over stone slogans in the trenches where wars are Love. quite naturally.
sometimes you have to breathe without meaning too.
it’s all a part of the plan how marbles sharpen their bandoliers of refraction. In Thrall of an Angry Sleep. and a novocaine Ponzi Scheme,