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June 17, 2000
A PUBLIC PLACE - bamboo book
A PUBLIC PLACE
...
The green crashes of mushy waves. Soft and fragile, a strange massage. Twin floaters in twin colors. White suits on blackened souls the useless stamps I love funny and hungry eyes starring at blue deep in search. The scribe is present. On the second coming the second page the minor pages, the alternative brands. Half submerged watergirl shimmering smile. Very brown tall in white searching in the water drinking the water at the sea salt. All the bamboo you want. There's always a Joan who's out for something, like she's back quickly. She must be here. Anonymously finds taking the head by the river. All the bamboo you want. And she shows you can suck. Murmured, nurtured slogans, combining by brute force, masking and screening them, dust and paper debris from the sand. Flattened lands and trees moving towards equator a quarter of an inch a year with full suburbia of snails and ferns and lilies, I am walking south on the heels waiting to turn into t-rex-size gearings. In the crack of my hands still under one shade.
WET AGAIN
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The wives there. Glittered and silver over Tokio over Rio over Paris white on the edge on radio waves your wet feet. There is to be wealthy and maybe us to go pale. Everyone for the weekend, middle age and you wish be old. Umbrellas with bronze legs, assistants, little sisters, gritty boyz, wacky nurses. Wet again. Laying by the open gate crashed whoknowswhere, she jamming in the dark of one last reptile. Vegetable boy passing by. Garbage little bike big bike. Real pushers don't do it. Like fishes in yellow shorts. Rosso already. Sil's crying. Bas. Wet again.
The day that passed in pink and brings me back to JCU and "crowded we've gotten" both in a milky mood. The cat pissed at Anagreen, his funky wig coming back home. Red cotton wraps back on his chest. Crippled, fluffy blue sandals. The fish goes home probably figured it too salty. Really like never. Dunno this little place over clouds called "the Jinx". Everybody out there have my blessing. Wet again. I can hear them creeping and crying in the barn, kids naked and trying again. Ice, gasoline, just get a soda, I will follow. Dogs know each other well. It is the smell. Men they're not having so much fun. It is the sun. Girls all the walk and all that slowly. They've got it oily. So it doesn't blow me away but that's fine. All things I had wanted for me I have had for you all.
A WARM PLACE
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Waiting on the shore, sand yields beneath my feet, the water shouts and roars and rushes and breaks on the rocks, and never comes near to where I wait. The closer they get the faster they go. When they're by the edge jump. It all comes natural.
LIFE CONSIDERED AS A SPIRAL OF SEMI-PRECIOUS STONES
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It's the sound of brass, nails, interiors and fangs, roll bars in crashed cars, strawberry and lime. Your influence plan by patches, extensions and backgroundings, is reshaping my interest to occasional landscapes, passing girls. Procedures. Dancing around bones. This you do my young and this you are paid for. So be blessed may your sales fly sky-high. I just heard the news that Julie died. Despairing feelings of being buried alive. Any notion of the pigeonholes into which they would try to fit her work? The social structure mirrors the individual process of addiction on a larger scale. The social dynamic of addiction is that of predator and victim. We know what we are doing, aren't we? Asleep when she starts knocking at the door the green concrete world smiles. It's all down the river Beaver wooing me much for that the knowing world screaming says. Division halted, that eventually there will be only you.
TRITON
...
To put the country simple we claim the right to leave and live, speechless insects with no knowledge of policy and no preferences body. I don't claim that our methods are one hundred percent human. But I offer this distinction. I'm with the invaders. You can smile once through the carnival feeling and sensory impressions of the human host. Reality add. Tuneless nasal academy. The only thing that makes the machine move. Detach ourselves from word forms.
© Fortunato Caragliano
Posted by lck at June 17, 2000 04:35 PM
