March 2009
6 posts
a day produced scrappy impressions, as if each hour was torn off a leaf or a fiery page burnt. the list of purchases as follows: pastes, flowers, 8 women.
in childhood i never could understand why in books the process of weeping so strangely is described: in the nose, in the eyes. tears flowed frequently, as if they were always on call, it was worthwhile only to strain our cheeks - if you please, the necessary water level in the ocean. now exactly it pinches, splits. apparently, with the years everything has more salt, the splinters of cockleshells,...
with deep night along the roads drive other automobiles. you will look, it occurred, you think. you will count to three villages. what they do make there? dying from pride, they cut along uninhabited streets, right and left pressing imagery. they arrive in us to plough, they pass into measurements and ominous blinking of headlights, dropping behind its angularity, deliberately, slowly.
but sounds still at night are carried, the ordered columns of greyskies sometimes appear, or the wedge of sprinkler machines. at night simply fairy tales are created on the roads, like cosmetic catalogs with this slogan: “night protects your youth!” so much in the sense it is possible to wind, by nights generally heaven knows which occurs.
how often about them she wrote, and what stuff with which to make a basic view! they stand, they drink by evenings, limply they fight, a little they sleep on the benches and again they stand. they are occupied with the matter. carriages in the morning entrust them, and the picture becomes touching, many-colored.
in peasants with bottles the children always sleep. i suspect how much they will say under any conditions. squadron of carriages, next infantry. they guard the coin before the wine division. but you pass by - healthy, pink-cheeked, with the billowing arms of life, complete diverse miracles, and the child in your carriage requires something according to the complete program. it is this you cry.
September 2008
1 post
“Without art we would be nothing but foreground and live entirely in the spell of...”
– Friedrich Nietzsche
June 2008
9 posts
absorption of slick rain-rooftops and...
the remarkable door in the entrance was placed by one of many numerous ladies. it lives upstairs with the cold, exactly from the side of the street. these mothers are sometimes such jokers. among those despised by experts are slips of the tongue in small packets with the taste of freshly cut grass. completely lotus, creators assured … typical mint haze above the grown bald field, the...
i obtained suddenly in midnight three floors of Indian pastry. it is more reliable than the world. each subsequent moment you involuntarily compare, crumbling in the sesame, painting in gay colors and seasoning. everything is in the flavor of the moment. how much i remember, i am always spilled a little. and where do i absent myself at night?
a song drifting by the door: ‘grandson wants the twig, lost somewhere. well, here to you another - grandmother breaks tree.’ by the way about the songs: they speak the only lines in which light removes directly to its comrade, the sun. it is desirable to threateningly think that the yard-keepers were brighter in our time, but time already rolls into the eyes. the bushes shake by...
the post office decorated itself with euro-despair. out of ten colleagues nine drink tea, one works with the gloomy turns in three tales. the sender address is always incomprehensible and meager. the happy citizen, after reddening from pride, wrote its timid “why?” and sent it with the address indicated, and its entire life remained to run away from the infinite rivers of paper which...
the most dishonorable coldness occurs. parades are passed by with poor salutes in this month of slumber. deaf-mute, she does not say, but runs naked; ablaze in the adjacent court, as you yell yourself. there were guests, cakes were passed, and cold simulated. you will recall sequential heights; happy and pink-cheeked, you subjugated it with a hot head, but now you lie. you drink tea with the aroma...
spaces furrow, evenings are opened with cherished doors. go home to the day of enamored ones; it is time to sell hearts. clay. they report them in their diaries: for example, high Chinese and two taciturn women, reading-on-the-toilet boy. in the sense of bonfires, an excitedly proposed heart overturns for so long and no longer.
today it searched for sealing-in, dried lobes between pages, recollection, classics. strict contrasts. yellow roses against the black background. late in the evening, when the city gets tired it ignites fires which slowly float up in the snowy dusk. peasants are pulled into the apartment with utility hooks; they fear to apply mud in the master corridor and are beaten on the stairs by injured birds...
a flash of eyelids paid for the song in koi. it is necessary to begin; calculations arrived for a bilious sum. apparently we could not manage. honestly they wanted, and were not able. they counted for air, past exactly foolish passes. forest birds sometimes depart from the forest in order to create images of themselves. one sits on a separate birch, and all around already strip lights, snapping...
May 2008
2 posts
a moment’s interlude for words like smoke to spill in my waiting mouth. the reinvention of moments, ferverent wishes for small aches, dizzy and waiting for need. beginning places where thoughts are mattters for little soul sufferings, the scribbles on night lanes and messes of fractured fingerbones lying like my past. temple sighs and hushes, words and windows moving familiarly, rough...
“there is a chain of events over & above the apparent one, which we are...”
– Andre Breton to Anna Balakian