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Black and white
Am I here now? Once I ask and twice turn by my nape just in case.
Am I here now, down from the terrace of a place did I lose my place in?
I am not upstairs. I am here. I am here. So ahead may you go.
White paper, thin lines but black in shade of another, whilst drenches the board some strokes of bottle green from a brush of some stranger unknown.
White paper on my lap. Peeping through some black lines, I behold them on the face like palimpsest on an arcane wall for whom has it been a decade of abandonment. May it be just as oblivious now. Is it?
White paper, spaces with such fine demarcation - what! A chimera almost for me. What! No! Am I not in senses to tell. But I am. I am. I am you see. Can you not tell?
Standing asunder, how incredible a craft of hands or machines, a pity for me to cry about! Standing apart art these spaces with black lines… black lines and underneath it the hard core, a bed of that green that did grasses never grow with under the skin of my bare feet. They sit – all of them on my lap. They sit – my right arm on the layout, my left just holding the book tight. They sit – my feet with the shank entirely naked with thistles that I never notice, or never care to. What do you say? What art thee saying? Am I a man now? All of these and some of that, on and on as my mind may churn while wonder I if ‘tis an abode it carves in this world I already live. What imagination! Alas! What this imagination of mine. I have not even read Keats yet. If so, I will fly; if so, I will switch at the drop of a hat; and if so, I will beg myself to sojourn just a little longer and explore the depths of what hath I never seen – I may as well swim underneath someone else’s skin. ...
Am I here now, down from the terrace of a place did I lose my place in?
I am not upstairs. I am here. I am here. So ahead may you go.
White paper, thin lines but black in shade of another, whilst drenches the board some strokes of bottle green from a brush of some stranger unknown.
White paper on my lap. Peeping through some black lines, I behold them on the face like palimpsest on an arcane wall for whom has it been a decade of abandonment. May it be just as oblivious now. Is it?
White paper, spaces with such fine demarcation - what! A chimera almost for me. What! No! Am I not in senses to tell. But I am. I am. I am you see. Can you not tell?
Standing asunder, how incredible a craft of hands or machines, a pity for me to cry about! Standing apart art these spaces with black lines… black lines and underneath it the hard core, a bed of that green that did grasses never grow with under the skin of my bare feet. They sit – all of them on my lap. They sit – my right arm on the layout, my left just holding the book tight. They sit – my feet with the shank entirely naked with thistles that I never notice, or never care to. What do you say? What art thee saying? Am I a man now? All of these and some of that, on and on as my mind may churn while wonder I if ‘tis an abode it carves in this world I already live. What imagination! Alas! What this imagination of mine. I have not even read Keats yet. If so, I will fly; if so, I will switch at the drop of a hat; and if so, I will beg myself to sojourn just a little longer and explore the depths of what hath I never seen – I may as well swim underneath someone else’s skin. ...
