Sunday, November 27, 2011



Underwire experiences of renowned censors: he who seeks to silence the mysteries of life and death submerges himself in them. To know grace is to care who won and rake the leaves off of no one’s lawn, ignoring the laws of Id and file. Whole tribes pass through the gates of ivory, gates of horn, forming in their fomenting identities. They get sold back their own sacred faces by the sweatshop seamstresses of fashion and art, daughters of Retro, goddess of return.

The leaves have fallen that are yet to fall but no one says so in the Daily Mail. Taken for granted, the naked deterrents of time round the bend down the far side of the track and die laughing at the rabbit. As if to bar the gagging wages of pensioners, no one reads the circular anymore.

You’d think all this silence were significant, especially under erasure; but it’s erotic after all, hiding the greasiest spot with a daub of kitsch. While the wives of Bath are busy boring children, the terrain reminds order to rearrange silence for its own ends.

Scapegoats rise to the priesthood here, riding in on golden asses. The fallen leave, the comings are rain, jiggedy-jig, the dancers fill their cards with horses’ manes and plead insanity. Verbs take over with the brief tenacity of red runway carpets sprinkled with holy rose petals. Trampling replaces worship here and...

...i laid lame as Armageddon’s carts strolled by, out of gas and un-newsworthy.