Moot 7

Faith like a dram of frothing beer seams over the nottinghill of hopes. Purdy, its undirected pies still drag the table over the gravelled pub floor. Cramming the ground with tabled garlands, or filling the balconies with sunbathers better attuned to the polar skin of winter, as the bumblebees crowd around honey plates, full of the summer of attraction and forgetting youth, spilling into the future like an ancient river. What? Can this balcony to the machinery of soul, I mean the consistency that swears better than it manueveurs, like a revision vehicle, actually breathe the continuity of sunshine without inner stagnation, in the way one enters the ownership of an overfamiliar thing like someone awaking from nothing to find himself a person again, loafed in a dungeon of present that reverses, as it were, into the future like a retreating rear view mirror of emotive occurences? Yes? I read that Merlin once fled to the forest in escape of irrational human fear, as the couch in the hidden Carribean balcony bends, but found the woods too enchanted for his dreams, too full of the criterias which determine the tightropes, the plans, the trapeze-tension, of the circus that amuse the nonexistent Muses that watch them. In that case, one might reason that spell-frames, or a toothbrush that cleanses more than material dirt, or even shelter that has reached further than the commanding hands of nature, will continue to pierce the air that fills the torched, uncrested running of highways that seem to bridge the strange crevasse that divides heaven and hell, or man and man, or past and future, or stairways and the sky, or clouds and candy, or fire and the vast sinking sea.

So. This strange landfill that holds up the attic of the earth on pencilled beams. Wallow my friend. For home is here, at least, in the strange choking motions of a concentrated second. For it is but gone, like a illusion that mimiked itself, prating in the garments of truth a second ago, exposed to its vanity and the stranger wind, deprived of the mirror of necessity which breaks and cracks with each passing second, only to rise again in an elevator of transcending hope, flapping its winged frame over the drowning forces that trembles and overwhelms. No, not a predictive instrument, a breakable, sure orb, or a telescope, to watch and to severe, lost in observation but saved, even recovered in an identity compass......