4065. BREEZE

BREEZE

'At the moment, I'm so exhausted that I

feel like cutting my throat, so the next

news may be that I'm across the river and

under the trees. What is the meaning and

purpose of life? Death?'

-

'The mind is a city like London - smoky

and populous', Shelly wrote. In the time

it takes for my face to roughen I shall be

dead  -  and some stupid man will need to

shave my face again  -  though this time

for Death and all its attendant burials :

(and all who see, shall follow me).

-

I makes no sense so little so little to

go on and on : prattle so like the stevedore's

talk, is an endless dockside weave of but

gossip and woe...'my car won't start, my

house, the roof is leaking, I am so sick

myself, as sick and near to doorways

of death as one can be.'

-

Let me learn to relax, like the fire-pit's

turning rod  -  langorous and steady and

slow  -  on a scheduled journey, a place

in this time where things get done. I want

to live. I want to live. I want to live.

(But this slow turning is Death to me).