you can find this state of mind, without even
looking -
that three tier psychology -
plot subplot un-plot -
i don't remember how much i drink
sometimes, but it's usually to excess -
well, a litre of whiskey will equal to
a k.o. in terms of drinking for most people -
surprisingly i find a lucidity in excess -
i function,
today i worked in the garden, trimmed -
this time last year i was starting to make wine -
yep, i make my own, time-consuming though,
somewhere between a red & rosé -
standing tall at around 14%.
usually in the excess of 10+ bottles -
but this year? a terrible harvest, not enough
to even bother fermenting...
pish-poor harvest, so i was in the garden getting
rid of the mush,
then i started sweeping the autumnal decay -
mind you, i adore the monochromatic colours
of autumnal leaves as much as the psychedelic
bursts of spring...
after all: to whatever palette of taste minds
the adoring observer...
drinking... yes, to excess -
but it's not my consciousness that is in a trance -
oddly, i'm starting to "think" that
my subconscious is drunk -
otherwise it would all seem like the dizzy,
dizzy affair of a carousel -
blurry cross-eyed peering
into poseidon's domain under, water,
a pseudo-dyslexia,
i.e. never the accurate spelling -
and never the paper sudoku enso -
paper as in: no room for error.
shame, though, about the low yield of grapes,
then again, this year the calla lily in my garden
didn't exfoliate as it usually does -
but it did, nonetheless revive
itself in the now, middle of autumn.
i beg to differ having already called
autumn monochromatic -
no, it isn't, only summer is dull, dull hot,
with its frog afros of trees -
dull... uneventful in terms
of being curious...
just an endless stream
of blue green brown blue green brown blue green,
brown.
strange: only in its entirety
of the decay of nature can beauty still be found...
unlike cezanne's take on still life,
the plucked apple rotting...
as all fruits and vegetables -
the end product - whether heaven or hell
will most probably feel as ugly -
only in the transience of the labourers -
the leaves - slowly removing chlorophyll -
the natural retraction - the natural reflex -
how adorable to find that nature cannot
comprehend reflection -
as man is predisposed into
this dreamy affair of reflection,
abled further by memory, and the indisposable
fragrance of nostalgia to add -
how nature cannot ever remember,
because it's constantly in an ad continuum: replica;
that grandiose intactness of nature -
and that even grander
dismemberment of man
to serve as the only worthy compliment.
