Having my way with Ulysses

Shut your eyes and see

Creating space, Creating Time according to the wonders Divine Of Human Imagination, throughout all the Three Regions immense Of Childhood, Manhood & Old Age; & the all tremendous unfathomable Non Ens Of Death was seen in regenerations terrific or complacent varying According to the subject of discourse & every Word & Every Character Was Human according to the Expansion or Contraction, the Translucence or Opakeness of nervous fibres such was the variation of Time & Space 11:00 am

The world is real and eternal.  Don’t take my word for it, think through your eyes.  Look at the idealists, they knew how to use a good work around.  Take Berkeley for example.

Berkeley:  There is not existence without the mind.  Objects cannot exist without a mind perceiving them.

So to perceive is to be.  Oh yeah, then when I leave the room does it disappear?  Come on.

Berkeley:  Objects continue because God sees them.

And there you are.  A likely story.  Convenient to invent a universal perceiver so all things can be seen and thus be real.  Even Schopenhauer, who had a bit more sense than the other idealists, speaks this treason.

Schopenhauer:  The world is my idea.

Please, what about that sun up there behind those clouds?  And this beach, these shells I crunch under my feet and this sand washing through my fingers?

Schopenhauer:  It is not a sun and an earth, but only an eye that sees a sun and a hand that feels the earth.

But what about time?  Close your eyes.  Think of a very short space of time.  You aren’t closing your eyes.  You think I can’t see you?  I can’t see you and you are real.  Now close them.  Nothing will disappear.  Go ahead.  I’ll wait.  Ok, close your eyes later and think of very short times of space.  And listen.  Rhythms, the nearing tide, the crunch under your feet.  Close your eyes and look through the opacity of your eyelids.  Is it is all still there?   World without end?   All the time, and all time?  You did not need to see to believe.  All still here.  Me too.  Look, there are my feet.  Buck’s shoes.  I’m wearing his pants too.  And Jim’s hat.  But whether one thing comes after another or they stand nicely side by side, the world is not the idea of a creator.  There is no Los, that fallen earth owner creating material reality in his forge, or holding his diaphanous orb of fire as he walks into the crypt of eternity wearing Blake’s hat.  Nor are there ghosts within.  Listen.  That’s a ghost talking, Hamlet’s father.  Howsomever thou pursuest this act, taint not thy mind nor let thy soul contrive against thy mother.  Now look what you’ve done.  I should never have spoken to you.  Your fault!  My mother, ghost with ashes on her breath, is walking here.  No.  Jesus!  I will not fall over that cliff that beetle’s o’er his base.  Oh Christ look now, look with your thoughts.  There I go.

Intercourse, eyeball to eyeball.

Heteroousios Dinner Theatre Presents: Contransmagnificandjewbangtantiality Starring Arius the Illstarred Heresiarch!

Far worse than uselessly he leaves the shore more full of error than he was before, who fishes for the truth but lacks the art. Of this Parmenides, Melissus, Bryson are clear proofs to the world and many others who went their way but knew not where it went; so did Sabellius and Arius and other fools, like concave blades that mirror, who rendered crooked the straight face of Scriptures. So too let men not be too confident in judging, witness those who in the field would count the ears before the corn is ripe11:03 am

God:  Hello! God here.  Aleph, Alpha, no headset chatter please.  Jesus let me know when you have places.

Jesus:  Nobody can find Arius.

God:   What! Why?  Entrées are coming out of the kitchen already.  Just look!  Plate after plate of clotted hinderparts.  Where in my name is he?

Jesus:  Not, not one of us can find him.

God:  Oh Christ.

Jesus: [materializes in the booth]  I’m here.

God:  Holy Jesus Christ you scared the shit out of me!  What are you doing in the booth?  It’s as if you came from nowhere.

Jesus:  Sorry.  I thought we should keep this off the headsets.  Arius said some odd things before the show.  Something about how you are not really my dad and we are both part of the same thing.  And that I should be co-stage manager instead of ASM.  Also, he didn’t look very good.

God:  I know, he was terrible in the first act, coming down the steps flabbily, with splayed feet.

Jesus:  And he had the worst gas.  Smelled like he was about to have a violent relaxation of his bowels.  Those front row tables!  I wept for them.

God:  Is that what that was?  I smelled it in the booth!  Look, we can’t just sit here navel gazing, we’re out of time.  Have you checked the toilet?

Jesus:  I just had that same thought.  I’ll look there, but I have a bad feeling about it.

God:  I just thought that same thing!  It’s like we have one mind.  Oh and Jesus, we should look into replacing him.  How about Adam Kadmon?  He can play anything.  Where’s that review of Edenville?  Here.  Listen to this: “he was a man and a woman at the same time”  he can play all the roles!  And this: “quite pure in breeding.  He could give birth parthenogenically at will.”

Jesus:  We can have a cast of thousands!

God:  “and he had a body that could pass through trees and stones”  that might be hard to plan for.  Think our technical director is up for it?

Jesus:  Heva?  Come on, she’s a viper.

God:  Well, go see if Arius is stalled on the throne or somewhere.  And don’t forget we are meeting for drinks at The Ship at half twelve.  And by the way, go easy with your money like a good young imbecile.

Intercourse, eyeball to eyeball.

And and and and tell us,

And into the river that had been a stream (for a thousand of tears had gone eon her and come on her and she was stout and struck on dancing and her muddied name was Missisliffi) there fell a tear, a singult tear, the loveliest of all tears (I mean for those crylove fables fans who are 'keen' on the pretty-pretty commonface sort of thing you meet by hopeharrods) for it was a leaptear. 11:06 am

Oh weeping God, the things I married into.  Drunken accountant and his brother.  Stephen the artist visiting them, couldn’t he fly a bit higher than that?  Nuncle Richie and Crissie, papa’s little bedpal, his lump of love.  And how does that visit go?  I’ll tell you, by Christ, same every time.  Stephen rings the bell and that cross-eyed Walter with his sir yes sir no sir sir checks for bill collectors, repo depot, summons servers then lets Stephen in to sit in the only chair.  Offer up the back ache pills, that’s all there is.  And then what?  Drunk in the morning Ritchie holding forth in his house of decay.  And and and and how is Uncle Si?  Stephen says his uncle is a Judge, his uncle is a general.  You’re awfully holy Stephen, aren’t you.  But you will never be a saint.  You prayed to the Blessed Virgin to spare you from drink and to the Devil to spare women from clothes.  You’d sell your soul for that, shouting Naked Women! Naked Women! from the top of a city bus.  Cry it to the rain kid.  And what about that.  What about what?  You’d read two pages each of seven books every night then bow to yourself in the mirror.  Stars in your eyes.  Applause!  You think no one saw.  House not that big kid.  Hurray for the Goddamned idiot!  Hray!  And where are those books you were going to write with letters for titles?  Have your read his P?  Yes but I prefer U!  FW is wonderful but don’t read SU. You were going to write on everything that can be known and the critics would say when one reads the words of one long gone one feels that one is at one with one who once won.  And once one has won the hearts of the one who reads the one that one has won, then one may write one more one like that one but not like the other one, you know the one.  Jesus wept, and no wonder by Christ.

Intercourse, eyeball to eyeball.

God, we simply must dress the character

History adds that before or after dying he found himself in the presence of God and told Him: "I who have been so many men in vain want to be one and myself." The voice of the Lord answered from a whirlwind: "Neither am I anyone; I have dreamt the world as you dream your work, my Shakespeare, and among the forms in my dream are you, who like myself are many and no one." 11:10 am

Let’s see, who shall I be?  I am a human shell and of course so are you.  What shall I fill myself with now?  I can wear my latin quarter hat with puce gloves and just say in the most natural tone: when I was in Paris, Boul’Mich, I used to.  Feel that?  Felt good, no?  Real.  And now it is for you to say you seem to have enjoyed yourself and yes, I seem.  It’s all in the seeming.  If it seems not it is not.  So then so.  Look around, no-one about?  Good.  Can shift to a new seam.  It’s allright, nobody saw.  And if caught wearing the wrong seem, well easy enough.  Other fellow did it: other me.  Which me?  Well there’s the me you can see and who the hell that is who can say.  Does it matter?  Who the hell are you?  Who are you to?  Who do you think you?  Well, you know who you, in all your glorious pluralities.  I see you shifting.  Where are you anyway?  Where makes you who just as much as when.  Is that an office?  Are you at work?  I can’t see.  Shift over a bit so I can.  Oh I see, now that makes more sense.  Of course who you are here is not who you are there.  There either.  You are free to act this way with these but not that way with those.  Fill yourself with yourself, but not all of yourself.  Save some for your solitary seem.  Nobody knows that who, not even you.

Intercourse, eyeball to eyeball.

Nother dying come home father

I heard this said to me: "Watch how you pass; walk so that you not trample with your soles the heads of your exhausted, wretched brothers."11:13 am

So I came home.  I went to Paris, starved, feasted, starved some more.  I sent pathetic messages to Nother, persevering self-pity, today I am twenty hours without food, your money was very welcome as I had been without food for 42 (forty-two) hours, spells of fasting are common for me now.  And from her position prostrate before the door she would sell furniture, rugs so her suffering boy might eat and buy magazines and a blue condom.  Once I missed her money order by two minutes.  Encore deux minutes!  Ferme.  See what I mean see?  I had nothing when Dad’s message came and had to pretend to speak broken English to avoid tipping a porter.  Inhabit the obsequious manner of a foreigner.  O, that’s all only all right.  And home.  Now I march over the piled stone mamoth skulls.  Proud, though it is not a task to take in jest, to show the base of all the universe — nor for a tongue that cries out “Nother.”

Intercourse, eyeball to eyeball.

The tangle of wined breaths

Ah, he's very thoughtful and sympatrico that way is Brother Intelligentius, when he's not absintheminded, with his Paris addresse! He is, really.11:13 am

Pimander is coming and how sweetly delicious he will be.  I see you, you man shepherd, I have my eye on you.  We will be yokefellows in arms.  We shall go to Paris and from the bed of your lover’s wife we will make a meal of it, our mouths yellowed with the pus and the taste of acetic acid so sweet and I shall thrust my fang between your lips.  Oh Pimander, I see a Vision limitless, all things turned into Light, sweet, joyous Light.  Transport me, appear in visions with me, I see you.  And you will show me the darkness coiling in my sinuous folds and the darkness will change into moist nature ineffable.  Drink and belch smoke and wail with the voice of fire.  Hang with me in the air, rise up and hang on the fire and mingle together.  Drink me.  I will wash you lacivious Pimander and bathe you in my most private green liquids.  I will rub your malefemale nakedness in the bath and like horseleeches oh to suck to suck the very blood to suck.

Intercourse, eyeball to eyeball.

Disguises, clutched at, gone, not here

No one has ever been so many men as this man, who like the Egyptian Proteus could exhaust all the guises of reality. 11:20 am

He lights the fuse and I see that flame dangerous, blue, a flame too close to the face light us, reveal our position.  Breathe it in.  Pause.  Blow it up to the sky.  A signal.  Time now.  A wild escape, light the fuse.  Hide. Then shattered glass and toppling masonry.  Ruin of all space and most particularly all time.  That’s gone.  And there’s death too.  As if death were not too.  Then, and lets be authentic now.  We are talking about the real here, no bullshitting around, the getaway happened under the disguise of the full blaze of day.  A wedding, honeymoon car, hide as a bride.  Easy.  People look and see a wild escape and imagine their own.  Ah well.  They all end the same.  Now our spurned lover is loveless, the wife is wifeless.  Again, the plain light of day washes over us all.  Think of all the landless now.  The exiles in America in particular.  The children of the children.  I think we have some Irish: American mutt.  They have forgotten.  Who?  Remember us, O Sion, we do not remember you.

Intercourse, eyeball to eyeball.

These heavy sands are language tide and wind have silted here

Never has any thing produced by human reason been everlasting -- following the heavens, men seek the new, they shift their predilections. That man should speak at all is nature's act, but how you speak -- in this tongue or in that -- she leaves to you and to your preference.11:23 am

I am well out of it.  Wet but wet dries.  It was the wind of wild air of seeds of brightness that did it, I was thinking about those golden seeds windborne, impregnating mortals.  Harpies as fast as gusts.  Then I walked into the ocean.  Not for that reason, but why not?  My soul walks with me.  Take everything, keep it all.  I have my form of forms and whether I listen to Elsinore’s tempting flood and walk into the ocean (I turned back) or sit on a couch of sand makes little difference.  The flood is following me.  Lord will it attack me?  Enough.  Enough walking through memories.  I move and time and space conjoin.  Better to sit and kill time instead.  I’ve no loyalty there.  I’m not time’s bitch.  Think of that dead dog who sat with me, my loyal pointer Orthus.  There: decay.  Good dog.  Bloat and decay: evidence of time’s destruction.  It destroys us and we destroy it right back.  Kill it.  Blur it together with space, kill that too for all I care. Stone it to death and they collapse together. I no longer see distinctions. The running dog? Just a point. Hungry brother of Orthus. Peekaboo I see you. Not me. Or you. The dog.

Intercourse, eyeball to eyeball.

Their blood is in me, their lusts my waves

1132 A.D. Men like to ants or emmets wondern upon a groot hwide Whallfisk which lay in a Runnel. Blubby wares upat Ublaniurn. 11:26 am

Hwæt, in geardagum Malachi; wæs breme — blæd wide sprang — him on bearme læg sweora-beah gyldenne; bescyrað scyldnga thæt Hring-Dene, cyninga cynost; ðæt wæs god cyning! God, monegum mægÞum, wuldres Wealdend, forð onsendan ofer yðe ðyrelhides.   Se micla hwæl biþ unwillum oft geméted frécne and ferðgrim fareðlácendum.  Fisc flódu áhóf on fergenberig; warþ gásríc grorn þǽr hé on greút giswom.  Soregung Ic acwiðe to nænige: nan to me.

Intercourse, eyeball to eyeball.

The dog’s bark ran toward him, stopped, ran back

Is not your time as irreversible as that same river where Heraclitus, mirrored, saw the symbol of fleeting life? A marble slab awaits you which you will not read -- on it, already written, the date, the city, and the epitaph. Other men too are only dreams of time, not indestructible bronze or burnished gold; the universe is, like you, a Proteus. Dark you will enter the darkness that awaits you, doomed to the limits of your traveled time. Know that in some sense you are already dead. 11:30 am

Haines, the dog of my enemy, and I just stood pale, silent, bayed about.  What do I want from these pretenders then or now.  Live their lives.  His life to be his and mine to be mine.  For this I am pining?  He is not fortune, he is fortune’s primrose knave.  Smiling at my fear.  Mocking me in their house of death.  Enough.  Nobody wants my medieval abstrusiosities.  Tell the truth.  He saves men from drowning and I shake at a dog’s bark.  Would I save somebody?  I’m not a strong swimmer.  The water is cold, soft.  But spit it out, yes, I would want to.  I would try.  It’s his eyes, though, a drowning man’s eyes scream the horror of his death.  I would drown with him.  Together.  I could not save her.  Lost.

Intercourse, eyeball to eyeball.

Looking for something lost in a past life

On a field tenny a buck, trippant, sable, unattired. 11:32 am

The dog on the beach was chasing a shadow and in my vision I saw in him wearing the tatters of a bear, a wolf, a calf, a buck.  He sniffed just like a dog the carcass of his dead brother before he moved to one great goal.  Here lies poor dogsbody’s body.  Me.  A yew on a field sable, couchant, fallen, blasted.

Intercourse, eyeball to eyeball.

You will see who

Thereupon the eagle changed into a piebald wolf and these two battled in the palace for a long time, when the cat, seeing himself overcome, changed into a worm and crept into a huge red pomegranate which lay beside the jetting fountain in the midst of the palace hall. Whereupon the pomegranate swelled to the size of a watermelon in air and, falling upon the marble pavement of the palace, broke to pieces, and all the grains fell out and were scattered about till they covered the whole floor. 11:36 am

My dream of the night before puzzles me.  Remember.  I am almosting it.  I was walking amongst my subjects in the street of harlots, disguised as a carpet merchant.  I found there amongst the tanyard smells a young man, quite lost, dressed in rancid rags illdyed black.  He looked near starvation so I offered him a melon, but he would not eat.  Instead, he delighted in its smell.  I led him to an open hallway and showed him the greatest treasure amongst my wares, a piece of tapestry that transports any who sit upon it in an instant to any person imaginable, without being stopped by any obstacle.  He asked who?  And I said you shall see.  But when we sat together on the red carpet it was as if in that instant of transformation I became not the dreamer but the dreamed.  I felt not myself.  I was not myself.  I had become my dark companion and what was left of me existed only as the name Haroun al Raschid within the memory of his dream, now my dream.  I sat on a beach watching an inrushing tide.  There were other people, but I could see only dimly, an Egyptian man and woman with hennaed faces, the woman’s hair trailing. There was a dog, dead with a creamfruit smell, and a live one too, lightly kicked by the Egyptian for a transgression I didn’t see.  I watched as well as I could, the dog sniffing a rock, then lifting a hind leg and pissing against it.  Then the dog repeated himself against an unsmelt rock.  I cannot be sure as something was terribly wrong with my vision, but I believe I saw the unhappy beast collapse into painful yelping and as his hind paws scattered the sand his forepaws stretched, altering itself into the paw of a leopard.  With a shake, screaming, the entire leopard sprung forth from the sand.  It was the offspring of a lion and a panther within whose womb, impatient with the delays of time, he had felt burdened by gestation.  He had torn and ripped until he was discharged forth into the world, his birth damaged and scarred his mother’s womb forevermore.  Horrible now, upon this beach, he roots and scrapes.  Scratching.  Stopping to listen.  Scratching.  His merciless bright eyes hungry, scraping the earth.  Salivating now, listening.  Scratching, then triumphant as a carrion vulture, revealing the carcass of his dead mother.

Intercourse, eyeball to eyeball.

Delectatio Morosa

I was a lamb among the holy flock that Dominic leads on the path where one may fatten well if one does not stray off. 11:40 am

No, not morose as in gloomy or sullen.  Morose from moror, a delay in time.  Not up on your Latin?  Keep in mind that one of my usual attributes is that of angels beating people about the head with my books.  Study up, you don’t want a particularly large copy of Summa Theologica crashing down on your skull.  And those copies the angels use — they are illuminated!  Heavy.  So is pleasure subject to time?  This is what I was getting at and the answer is yes and no.  It is and it isn’t.  You see?  Because The Philosopher says delight is a kind of movement, and all movement is in time, pleasure is subject to time.  But he also says that no one takes pleasure in time, so it is not subject to time.  Both.  How can this be you ask?  Careful, the angels are hovering.  I see a particularly weak armed one too struggling with an oversized edition of The Summa Contra Gentiles.  Pleasure of itself is not in time, because it not a movement, but if this pleasure be subject to change, then it will be in time accidentally.  So what delights you?  That will be the thing to make the difference.  If it is a good obtained, it will not be in time, but if there is movement of the imperfect in your pleasure, then, well, it is subject to time.  And there we get into sin.  The more morose, the more mortal the sin.  Does that help?  Do you need a good whack in the head with a book?  Would you enjoy a whackin the head with a book?  Careful with your answer, the angels are listening.  Ay me.  I’m hungry.  You know, delectation denotes a movement of the appetitive power.  Could use a little wine too.  I am a touch purple now from wine, did you know that?  They boiled me in it to render my fat from my bones.  They had to, I was too corpulent to be moved, so they transformed me into a more portable form.  I hope they drank some wine themselves, after the job they had trying to get me down the stairs and then the more difficult job of dislodging me from the staircase.  Hard to accomplish that with proper dignity.  Ultimately they broke open a window and dropped me down.  Did no harm to my bones, my flesh was ample enough to break the fall.  I wonder what they did with my rendered fat?  Light a candle, will you, it’s dark in here.

Intercourse, eyeball to eyeball.

Across the sands of all the world followed by the suns flaming sword.

To the west, trekking to evening lands. She trudges, schlepps, trains, drags, trascines her load. A tide westering, moondrawn in her wake. Tides, myriadislanded, within her, blood not mine, oinopa ponton, a winedark sea. Behold the handmaid of the moon. In sleep the wet sign calls her hour, bids her rise. Bridebed, childbed, bed of death, ghostcandled. Omnis caro ad te veniet. He comes, pale vampire, through storm his eyes, his bat sails bloodying the sea, mouth to her mouth's kiss. 11:43 am

That’s twice I forgot to take slips off the library counter.  Remember it now.  Try.  Comes and goes.  How did I start it?  The sounds.  Moomb woomb allwoombing toomb. Mouth to her kiss.  No, two mouths.  Glue them together.  Gluey.  Mouth to her mouth’s kiss. Wayawayawayawayaway.  Ooeeehah.  huh.  Where?  To evening lands.  Omnis caro ad te veniet.  His bat sails.  Her bat shawl.  On swift sail flaming.  From storm and south.  He comes, pale vampire.  Mouth to my mouth.  I am set naked on your kingdom.  Oh, thy kingdom come!  A winedark sea.  Behold the handmaid of the moon.  The moist star.  Unto thee all flesh shall come.  What is her burying grave, that is her womb?  Tomb.  Mouth to her womb.  allwombing tomb.  Oomb.  Thou’rt my Mother from the Womb, Wife, Sister, Daughter to the Tomb.  Trudges, schlepps, trains, drags, trascines.  Across the sands of all the world.  Is that what I wrote? Bridebed, childbed, bed of death, ghostcandled.  Tides myriadislanded, within her.  A tide westering, moondrawn.  In sleep the wet sign calls her hour, bids her rise.  Followed by the sun’s flaming sword.  to the west.  Trekking to evening lands.  Pale vampire, through storm his eyes.  Bloodying the sea.  The winedark sea.  O shit give it up.  Who ever anywhere will read these written words?

Intercourse, eyeball to eyeball.

Beneath a reign of uncouth stars.

For one of those gnostics, the visible universe was an illusion or (more precisely) a sophism. Mirrors and fatherhood are abominable because they multiply and disseminate that universe. 11:46 am

[A slight whispering wind blows through the theatre and we hear the sound of an incoming tide.  The veil of the temple rises revealing a circle of people lying on their backs staring up at the sky.]

Cassiopeia: [gazing at herself in a hand mirror] The stars are beautiful at this time of day, don’t you agree?  Though not as beautiful as me of course.

Pan:  Of course, baby.  Now come over here and sit on my lap.  My energies are rising.

Cassiopeia:  None so beautiful as me.

Shadow: [rolling over, bending himself toward the rocks, turning his back to the sun] Darkly they are there behind this light.  Darkness shining in the brightness.

Proteus:  [in the shape of a long stick, curved at the end, no knots]  We are here to look at birds people, not stars.  Now pay attention before I change my mind, I’m getting tired.  Did you hear that rook?  That means it will soon rain.

Pan:  This is Seattle, everything means it will soon rain.  Look, a dog!  It will soon rain. Look, a wave!  It will soon rain.  Please.  So, Virgin, your hand is so gentle.  Love the longlashed eyes, baby, want to trust me a little?

Cassiopeia:  She, she, she.  What is she to compare to me?

That Virgin:  [pointing] That cloud looks like a book.  See it up there?  Oooh, now it looks like letters.  U. P.

Pan:  [visibly aroused]  A lady of letters!  I am lonely here, touch me.

Proteus:  [in the form of our souls]  Goodness!  Look at that manshape ineluctable! I’ll sit on your lap. Cling to you a little, a woman to her lover.

Pan: [in his flutiest voice] The more the more!

Shadow:  [flatly] Come back to us Proteus, I see shadows of birds on a white field.

Pan: [Flutier] Don’t listen Proteus, come, cling, then come.  Now where the blue hell are you?

Proteus:  [In the form of a mirror] That’s better.  Feel a bit shamewounded.  Now where were we.  Oh yes.  Those birds, Shadow, are magpies and there are one, two, seven of them.  A secret.  And my stars, look, an owl!  And it is nearly noon, no wonder I am so tired.  Let’s see, owl, a revelation at night.  Also a bitter mystery.  A mysterious secret will be revealed at night.  Also, it will soon rain.

Cassiopeia:  [rubbing lotions into her skin]  Proteus, you’ve never looked so flat, yet in you I see distance.  Near, far, east, me.  Oh there I am.  Me.  Oh Proteus, you are so beautiful.  Oh, I feel something!  What is that word known to all men?

That Virgin:  What is that word?  I want to feel it too.  Point over here Proteus, show me what Cassiopeia sees.

Proteus: [In the form of Berkeley]  You see nothing.  You think you see.  Everything is flat, and you only think you see distances.  Those stars unbeheld behind this light?  Their distance is only an element of your idea of them.

Pan: [masturbating gently]  I am lonely here. O, touch me soon, now.  I am quiet here alone.  Sad too.  Touch, touch me.

Shadow: [in the form of my form]  Not for all the word.

Intercourse, eyeball to eyeball.

He lay back at full stretch over the sharp rocks

I stood by the unvintageable sea till the wet waves drenched face and hair with spray, The long red fires of the dying day burned in the west; the wind piped drearily; And to the land the clamorous gulls did flee: "Alas!" I cried, "my life is full of pain, And who can garner fruit or golden grain, from these waste fields which travail ceaselessly!" My nets gaped wide with many a break and flaw. Nathless I threw them as my final cast into the sea, and waited for the end. 11:50 am

Better get this job over quick.  Side by side with the serpent plants and milkoozing fruits.  Pain is far.  And no more turn aside and brood.  Brood on my boots.  His boots.  I am a Buck’s castoff.  Brother soul, Wilde’s love that dare not speak its name.  His arm, Cranley’s arm.  He will leave me.  אֶהְיֶה אֲשֶׁר אֶהְיֶה‎.  I will be what I will be.  All or not at all.  I shall wait.  No.  Chafing against the low rocks.  Swirling.  Passing.  Listen: vehement breath.  Wavespeech of waters.  Seesoo,  amid seasnakes.  Hrss rearing horses.  Rsseeiss rocks.  Ooos.  In cups of rocks it slops.  Flop slop slap.  Bounded in barrels.  Slopped and churned. The bungholes sprang open and a huge dull flood leaked out, flowing together, winding through mudflats all over the level land, a lazy pooling swirl bearing along wideleaved flowers of its froth.

Whispering weeds:  Shhh. Lift your skirts, we are flooded.  Let fall.  Ahhh we are weary.  Lift.  Shhh.  Flooded.  We await fullness.  Day by day and night by night.  Shhh.  Pray to St Ambrose for us.  He loves virgins.  Shhh.  He knows how to hide.  Lift.  Shhh.  Let fall.  He will hide us.  Shhh.  Gather up forthflowing.  We are flooded.  Shhh.  Wending back.  We are weary.  Help us St. Ambrose.  Shhh.  Help us.

 

Intercourse, eyeball to eyeball.

Bobbing a pace a pace a porpoise landword

The first children who saw the dark and slinky bulge approaching through the sea let themselves think it was an enemy ship. Then they saw it had no flags or masts and they thought it was a whale. But when it washed up on the beach, they removed the clumps of seaweed, the jellyfish tentacles, and the remains of fish and flotsam, and only then did they see that it was a drowned man.  11:53 am

I once was lost I’ll soon be found I’m blind I’ll never see.  They will find me at one.  Floating in on the tide.  Bobbing.  Spongy foul flesh salt whitened.  I am a bag of corpsegas sopping in foul brine.  Minnows flash throught the slits of my button fly.  They like me this way.  I am becoming them.  Easy death soft as this hand of mist.  I held my breath.  It was a brief holding.  I knew.  I let go and the water came burning in horrible.  Panic. Oh God. Then I heard the music.  I’ve heard it before.  I recognized it.  Can’t describe.  And then the water voices.  I saw lights.  And people talking close to me, shades.  Then faces; the faces that come in the dark.  It’s ok now.  Let it go.  All done now.  Seadeath the mildest of all deaths.  My head is face up on the bottom.  Nose hole home to billions.  Mouth grinning in my green grave.  And the rest bobbing in with the tide.  There it is, see it?  Hook it quick.  Got all of it?  Pull.  We have him.  Easy now, don’t break him up.  Haul him over the gunwale.  No head.  Well, can’t have everything.

One Response to Bobbing a pace a pace a porpoise landword

Intercourse, eyeball to eyeball.

Or does it mean something perhaps?

11:56 am

Look, it is clouding over.  Black clouds?  Are there behind?  Thunderstorm.  Come, I thirst.  Now already.  Huh.  I’m still here.  Check teeth.  That one.  Going.  That one.  This.  My teeth are very bad.  Nearly noon, silent ship.  Yes, evening will find itself in me, without me.  I’ll be the Nacheinander walking through very short spaces of time through very short times of space.  Very short.  Not long enough to read any signatures.  Evening will find itself.  Can’t find anything to put this snot into.  Here.  Leave it here.  Snotgreen.  Alll of a substance.  Let look who will.  Anybody behind me?  Just me, rere regardant.  Toothless Kinch, superman, shell, with three masters.  Not in the best shape at present.  A shell of myself left behind by myself.  Look there I go (not yet, come on, now already) marching over shells into the next world, which now that I’ve said it is already gone.  No wonder I thirst.

Intercourse, eyeball to eyeball.