Ship.

The verb for being, in English, is deeply fucked up as are all temporal prepositions.  "Deeply fucked up" is an arcane piece of linguistic tomfoolery which roughly corresponds to "inherently unfit for purpose," though it has a more precise and unprintable meaning in certain vernaculars.  That point clarified, Michael is busy elsewhere on the vessel.

Last night while dreaming I was in an ancient ship. Perhaps a trireme.  Not, but perhaps almost, for the bridge supported me.

* * *

The bridge was all varnished wood and the glint of bronze.  Not varnish.  Shellac.  All ship-shape and Bristol-fashion.  All spick.  Moreover, span.  The span of the Bridge must be wide, or the bridge would scarce pass under it at any time or tide.  

(Poor TS, Calypsoed; Sirene. Flotsam.  

"Where do you go when words fail or tire you?" she asked and flooded the world with fear of everything that could be the case.

Halogenic.  Selene.  Jetsam.  

The sweat on muscular backs, the mist of it, a sound of leather stretching. Rowlocks ropes and glimpse of ocean, stretching too, surfaced with spray and spindrift; each drop a microscopic oscillation of focus, a frozen wave in four dimensions.

Hearing one utter "I've had 'squatters' on my properties, and I had to clean up after them, pay dearly to get rid of them, and hire security to help move them along. now was that fair to me?" I am speechless.  We hear this ever.  As Stroop wrote.

The language used by corporate entities is fearsome indeed.)

* * *

There will be music and falling. The wall of silence had been broken. Light enters thru gaps; boards are missing or damaged, this where the light is brightest.

This is how art grows. Botanically.  Slowly as the sloe vine grows. A slow walk through abandoned suburbs.  Streetlights fade with the square of distance, islands of light lessening, elliptically, the spaces between ever darker.  Darker.  


This is how life goes.  Zoologically.  Quick as the quicksilver the quick flow through the crowded agoras.  Diogenes' lamp distances the rectilinear city, darkness increases in regular oblong: no one sees it extinguished.

(In Southern Kenya, five hundred thousand people, mostly women and children, exist on the edges of life in the usual tented city. It is the largest refugee camp in the world.  They flee Somalia; even the cats dash from Mogadishu now.


I knew one of them, I fear.  She was a doctor.  She had come to the West in order she could better help those remaining home, and she left in anger and hatred of this civilization.  I have a "special interest."  I am 'biased.'

It has not rained now for two years.

Water, water.  

Water.)

The light is loudest. Synaesthetically. Light was calling, the lighthouse a siren.  The light is loudest in the silence, yet still loudest. Bright are the trumpets that herald all endings.  


The book states it, and the book is believed even though it is known that some of its pages have swallowed themselves: thus yet, still, they believe the book.  


The book, though, cannot believe itself; this unbelief grows as what they called 'years' passed.

Through bifurcation, as water. This for all things.  Evaporation, condensation; a sublime orbit.

The sinking was absurdly terrible. Condescending. Greece burns.

(The passengers who are the crew of the ship want to scream; sensing this, the ship screams for them.  The massive screws heave the heaving water.)

Remembering dreams is perilous. Dreaming remembering holds even more hazard.