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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. ‘Twill be different for me, inside a skin not my own. Hath thee worn one? ‘Twill be lighter to have a shade so ironical to say for this crude color invites so much of sunlight. I tried being someone else today. Did I? I ask, I ask, and I ask to be sure. I heard her sing her song again. ‘Twas not the first time, nor the second, nor the third, but just another in row. I heard her voice bereft of her company, the music they employ so well, and how I struggle to find them there sometimes. I heard her with no body. “I say, I say ... I am on my way…” so she sang and plucked the strings of her piano just right to tear my eyes out. Why should it aid me seek out the reason will I look for anyway, that I am looking for anyway. Why! Oh you man and woman of my kin, when did thee steal me sight when was I blinking? I let thee. Alack! I LET THEE! Shame on me! So flap my eye lids with as much a desire to close as to open, the hair on the edge being the only one clean for hath I wetted them one to many times indeed. I envisage I am already somewhat lost. Why, can’t you tell? Must thee be blind too. Why! Can thee deny? I think I am. But I think not right just yet. Alas! ‘tis hard for me to aid it. Keep it from me someone! Let me not have it. Why, I can’t help it still. Am I here to conjecture now? Now summons me my paving. I slept quite well, bothered in betwixt kicks of my feet juxtaposed closely on the grill embraced in eight complete layers of dead corrosion. That’s how long I have known the bed – oh this bed – my pubescence its birthday. Ahoy! Beckons me my line of stones. Must I cease talking for ‘tis an hour of the kind thee should know when is my life demanded for real. I am asked to die and be alive. I am asked to let the cold in and shut my system down on every corner. See how I fail and do it just enough.
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. ‘Twill be different for me, inside a skin not my own. Hath thee worn one? ‘Twill be lighter to have a shade so ironical to say for this crude color invites so much of sunlight. I tried being someone else today. Did I? I ask, I ask, and I ask to be sure. I heard her sing her song again. ‘Twas not the first time, nor the second, nor the third, but just another in row. I heard her voice bereft of her company, the music they employ so well, and how I struggle to find them there sometimes. I heard her with no body. “I say, I say ... I am on my way…” so she sang and plucked the strings of her piano just right to tear my eyes out. Why should it aid me seek out the reason will I look for anyway, that I am looking for anyway. Why! Oh you man and woman of my kin, when did thee steal me sight when was I blinking? I let thee. Alack! I LET THEE! Shame on me! So flap my eye lids with as much a desire to close as to open, the hair on the edge being the only one clean for hath I wetted them one to many times indeed. I envisage I am already somewhat lost. Why, can’t you tell? Must thee be blind too. Why! Can thee deny? I think I am. But I think not right just yet. Alas! ‘tis hard for me to aid it. Keep it from me someone! Let me not have it. Why, I can’t help it still. Am I here to conjecture now? Now summons me my paving. I slept quite well, bothered in betwixt kicks of my feet juxtaposed closely on the grill embraced in eight complete layers of dead corrosion. That’s how long I have known the bed – oh this bed – my pubescence its birthday. Ahoy! Beckons me my line of stones. Must I cease talking for ‘tis an hour of the kind thee should know when is my life demanded for real. I am asked to die and be alive. I am asked to let the cold in and shut my system down on every corner. See how I fail and do it just enough.
