Which is where the ayes have it.
In my book at least. So much emphasis is placed on poetry lists on readings,
as not in multiple meanings but singlenesses of performance, that one could
almost at times forget the internality of poetry, its for your eyes only,
and yours, and yours too, that voices under the social skin of surfaces, the
attractions and repulsions of physicality, a deeper selving than the moth
brief flying by of now. Of the eyes I world. Poetry is memory as text, and
its dynamics hold their charge in a way that reproaches the fading pictures
of what went by just then.
Disintegratingly, against the time, which will not be long.
Best
Dave
David Bircumshaw
Leicester, England
Home Page
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Painting Without Numbers
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