Posted by @ 10:17 pm on May 15th, 2013


YOU ARE STANDING in the garden forecourt. As you gaze at the flowers its molecules yawn. The closer at anything you’re looking, a dilation. Each clump of dirt with its mouth open moaning, the sound of hollows overtaking nature’s face.

Blanchot lights your cigarette. Nice compound, he says. Shouldn’t be too difficult to access its keep. Yes, responds Blanchot, but the coral currents of its sanctum-chambers, the situation of residing even so long to traverse. The smoke creeps into your eye. It stings. You squint as tho against the sun.

Consider, for example, the jumpsuited Italian as a plumber of depths, travelling thru worlds primordial but constant, the majority of life even now fungal and learning to walk, or else reptilian, leaping awkwardly, the hoist of their wings nothing against the weight of the shells they’ve not yet cast off.


and who can say if there’d be anything left?

The light by now has finished falling. You feel your shape blending with the shadows in the spaces between the leaves, as if to draw you in beyond the gates. You flick away the cigarette, take out a flask, swig, hand it to Blanchot. Still have a key to this place? you ask. Whiskey sprays from Blanchot’s nose, he guffawing, doubled-over choked.