my child

You do know who you are talking to? You do have some awareness of who I am, right? This morning, heaving with autumn, breaks apart as burnt paper beneath a whales tongue. Sweet memory of summer, held between our teeth. The old air of London, holds aloft a single hair. That old air, of London...

The sores in my mouth are better today. The canker tells of strange, acidic vapors - my teeth are cagey with it all. Perhaps one must dilute the existing quaquaqua... to up and have done with viscosities and verbose wall hangings. One oily figure melts into the next. An uncluttered life reflects an uncluttered head. And still there is movement in that old air. The spinning leaves remind me so.

If one should experience disasters within, then the world will bear the marks of strife. But if the mind is witness to a troubled world, and refuses to call it so, then surely strife will pollute the soul. I know from my own lies, the corrosive fictions that scatter here, now there.

Is that your fist you shake beneath the table? We have such intimate contempt for one another. Better to walk against the wind - to hear the wooden nail scratch your grimy window. It is all up with us. My body creaks like a wind blown cellar. Each bottle sings unto the melting snow - blow my child. Blow.