Slurp
But, I complained, it is too small to say and wide. God took a pinch of
snuff, Feeble excuse, He pronounced. I sniffed too, in a victimised style. I
wanted to ask: what's wrong with self-pity? I have pity for others too, but
He had levitated away already, safe in the clouds, and I was left with:
enfin the teeth fall out, enfin the prophet never appears, enfin the bus
breaks down, enfin I am a prat, enfin there is little unmarked on the maps
bar a lane not far from Market Harborough where delectable wild mushrooms
grow which has no relevance to anything, enfin simile is like a blind eye
opening, notice the singular, enfin memory is a black hole, guzzling at what
is, enfin we are what escapes us, leaking into the undefined, the burden of
void, carry that round with me I do. The ultimate hole. The home of lost
cries, of
slurp. Enfin.
Best
Dave
David Bircumshaw
Leicester, England
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