Monday, December 08, 2003

The Garden

Like a skein of loose silk blown against a wall
She walks by the railing of a path in Kensington Gardens,
And she is dying piece-meal
of a sort of emotional anemia.

And round about there is a rabble
Of the filthy, sturdy, unkillable infants of the very poor.
They shall inherit the earth.

In her is the end of breeding.
Her boredom is exquisite and excessive.

She would like some one to speak to her,
And is almost afraid that I
will commit that indiscretion.

Ezra Pound, Lustra (1913-1915)
I am heteroglossia and sensorama and cyborg. I want to exist in multiple contexts without ever facing the responsibility of one intersecting the other. That then is the crux of all my earthly worries. Fragmentation.

Drops of glass and shards of rain,
Seeping into the skin inch by inch,
Doing away with the luxury of my disembodiment...

Living on borrowed time,
Loving via media worlds
Writing through stolen signs...

Existence by proxy...