again and again and again

I am so very sick but trying to grasp Pound and strange psychoanalytical secondary theory and imagism and I have sneezed a thousand times but my ill health is definitely worth the incredible weekend I had full of like-minded people and creative inspiration and intellectual stimulation (and spoken word poetry in a makeshift tree cave) as well as laughing and dancing and I have never felt so confident in myself and the beauty, beauty of the world and I feel invigorated and excited… but copious amounts of berocca probably won’t fix this cloudy mind (damn).


" I would like to write like a painter. I would like to write like a painting.
The way I would like to live. Maybe the way I manage to live, sometimes. Or rather: the way it is sometimes given to me to live, in the present absolute.
In the happening of the instant.
Just at the moment of the instant, in what unfurls it, I touch down then let myself slip into the depth of the instant itself. "
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" And the days are not full enough
And the nights are not full enough
And life slips by like a field mouse
Not shaking the grass "
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©