This is the burgeon of something below. It isn't born, it's not new. You will find I will pay no heed to your need to get to the end.
An itch to control, scroll the itch to scroll which makes me turn.
Have you considered going back? Or will you wait 5 minutes?
You have lost the ability to be in an infinite space without hope. I have lost it too.
Sate it with pornography. With the news. Imagine 'architect of terror'.
Relive the rescue of a lost, autistic boy because you can imagine them swooping down for you in a helicopter.
But who are you really?
We are in a tentative space. The base of our feet does not touch any ground we've known before. Below the idle shelves idle sand til 30ft and coral til 90. The sharks leave off when the squid begins and below them, gravity is in flux like a tide.
The noticeable currents at such root fathoms bend more than move.
All is ribbon;
ribbon and coil.
The eye blinks open, black as ink in a black as equal about. The skin round it puckers.
I was in an artist's residence at 37 Rue de la Buchere. The artist was called Hiroshi Yoshida. He resided there in the place of Zani, who was in Arizona playing banjo for the Rainbow People.
One of Zani's women on the walls had that pucker'd eye. Her thin underwear drew my arousal. Then the book she held, my attention.
Bulwer—"The Haunters and the Haunted , or the House and the Brain"
The book is under the photograph of the girl. Inside I read:
See you know nothing!— it might contain a stream source, allowing the just, steady thing inside me to carry my own rising—
I'll plague the depths of near literature. The web crawls under the spidertop veins about my restful chest and fingertips.
The impression lasts that you are under water, waiting for me to hug my lungs and take only what I can hold onto.
I breathe and stare at the book, turn it over.
I shift left, see the another title. Preposition Black then some literary snobbery, some remark by the author, tasteless;
he discards reader as I discard you, to blackness.
What turns around February rain can I take, Gilbert? Who walks about the rain?
A thin bridge crosses the black space of the Seine.
The locks clang in the rain, Gilbert. They are all that moves. The spread of internationals each with their own shoes, they do not move. The benches and hub-stops, those cart-people with their maps and old books and plastic covers, they don't smell your February rain, they don't smell it and they certainly don't move among it.
I'm not angry at your cold pewter. Maybe it's just that France has always snuffed of something I forgot and wish I hadn't.
Forgot; perhaps lost.
37 Rue de la Buchere, staring into the round swarth of that model's ass, I forget, Gilbert.
Is the cold pewter figurine I kept, the wizard on horseback, does he expand the deeper into winter we go?
Zani is seen flitting the streets. he's escaped his role as the lost artist; become the collector. What pieces, Zani?
He hops the 173 in Direction of Porte de Clichy.
I'm a stranger in his home, and I'm not alone. He invites them in from all around.
Hiroshi. That girl. Who took her photo?