NOTHING I WOULD
HAVE IMAGINED
A penchant for pain - such as it is - permeates
my space like the old candle-woman talking
harsh in my face : her cigarette smoke upon
garish yellow teeth, a haphazard manner of
posture and a wave of the hands. She has
nothing to say, of course, though attempting
to say - something and wherever and how.
-
I bow, at the last, to the least of her
good intentions. While reading a
book on absurdity (a notion all to
itself), I am brought to a halt.
Italian Futurists and avant-garde art -
all things we call by concept, though
nothing is really real. And then
I am brought to a start:
-
On this train, a conductor I always
see - working for the union,
to promote the citizenry's weal -
has tucked into his belt the book
he currently reads. Nothing I
would have imagined; it didn't
seem his mate. A book by V. I.
Lenin - 'Rebellion and the State.'
A penchant for pain - such as it is - permeates
my space like the old candle-woman talking
harsh in my face : her cigarette smoke upon
garish yellow teeth, a haphazard manner of
posture and a wave of the hands. She has
nothing to say, of course, though attempting
to say - something and wherever and how.
-
I bow, at the last, to the least of her
good intentions. While reading a
book on absurdity (a notion all to
itself), I am brought to a halt.
Italian Futurists and avant-garde art -
all things we call by concept, though
nothing is really real. And then
I am brought to a start:
-
On this train, a conductor I always
see - working for the union,
to promote the citizenry's weal -
has tucked into his belt the book
he currently reads. Nothing I
would have imagined; it didn't
seem his mate. A book by V. I.
Lenin - 'Rebellion and the State.'
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