Saturday, May 13, 2006

Craters

I can’t avoid the Gorillas any longer. I can feel their primate sinew stretch in the night like ethereal wire connected to yesterdays flesh, a synaptic trace of this morphological variant like a splinter from a hologram. Our great dark and brutal clown parades from dream and nightmare, safely withered by entertainment but perhaps just a tiny bit of Antonin Artauds’ vision for the re-birth of ancient rites remain for those close enough to the costumes surprise.

I woke up yesterday on the floor, unable to breath and my pillows were thrown outward and away from the bed as I unconsciously ejected my body to escape disappearance. I haven’t had an attack for a while. I had been trying to keep tabs on my repression, my little carpet lifter and visceral sump.

Classic Doll has arrived and joins Newt Sublime upon the table where they can be seen always when one stands in the hall. I have set up mirrors in each room so that they can always be reflected to this vantage of interior geography and head height, a moment of panoptic certainty.

Some things of troubling:

1. Missing things, for example those that for a moment offered an opportunity to overcome traffic with regards my first post and the little relic reasonably known as cat mummy for identification purposes that turned up in Jezs’ houseboat and more recently Nambos’ shoe.
2. The little notes upon which the word ‘Shoe’ had been written remain a mystery. The letters on the reverse T. C. W so far mean nothing to me.
3. Everybody else seems to be travelling somewhere else apart from me. Brim here in bloody Camberwell, this remnant zone and survivor of the Blitz that left so many fetid pools for the delinquent children of Bauhaus to mud pie in.
4. Watch this space.

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