Letters of old dancers dancing to music, touching undone turbulents, formulating makeshift sentences, releasing their fury onto the world, the saints who have done no harm but are forced to make all the decisions, delivering daggers, of fury, in their brass outfits, off iron loviung, of bows and arrows locking into the hearsts of men and women in the same place, of peopple, yes, of humans loving intimacy, of loving dominance and power and in acceptance, of superiority or infiriority, clowning at majestic paragraphs, that are meaningful then meaningless, that are gibber gabber, edgar allen poe, allen ginsburg, allen allen allen clowning in your ear get back there in a fury! make of an echo and make out of a whisper! and do and do and do
Jolted, ready for action, body ready with a menacing pride, ready to unleash some kind of chemical, what kind of chemical, of brass of of object, some sort of metal recurring in me, let it go, release the fury, how to learn to let go proprery, let it go with some sort of a grace, doesn’t seem to be entirely possible, how does one really, really, let go? exactly? how do I know when my concioesnneseneses which I can never spell right is actually functioning? when is it actually functioning at the proper measures? I ask this humbly, as if talking to my therapist, who is thrilled with his PHD, who really really really wants to help me, and understand my disease, my disorder, where did this guy come from? He’s full of grey hair and he knows nothing and everything and his advice is that of a weight which drags me down and sombers my tone, but is left a note in my boats prolonged brigade of bridges, bringing me back to basics
