comforted by the brightness of the day
there’s always something that binds one
there’s always time to read
in the depths of the Amazon, something alien to my purpose
thousands of detective novels, whole archives
but barely any of the authors on the New York Times best-seller list
I’ve read too much buried myself in books
these invaluable books as Larkin said None of it had time
change into a tree then
change into an ocean liner
in the great museum one out of thousand impossibilities
this unexpected last-minute encounter,
what despair had brought to light like a detonation a stick a tree a stick
and travels from tree to tree to comfort ocean
A hat is not something that binds one
Strength lies in improvisation
through the interior jungle closing behind it, practice!
practice! there available as wounds and books as well as Dostoevski characters,
the forbidden carried away by a flow of logic
And the myth of the suffering artist what’s New York after all
without
helplessness
the impossible
a theme
a copy
the unexpected last-minute encounter
once the books found their place,
Not the mastery of a technique
à propos de la pluie on long voyages or the unabridged Brehm for that
the boxer with his shadow practice! practice! desperate
Lines in which it needs to be translated and as said each scratch
a mistake
distracted by questions (as with all gardens : eye- or ocean
-liner
phonetic uterus
silence
Geen opmerkingen:
Een reactie posten