16 April 2012
music was hitting her feathers and flakes were filled with blood and she was sold by the piece a penny a pound he was longing for her, grasping her foot, her ankle on which pupils wrote letters full of desires and other drained fluids
he was catching and pulling her savagely and she collided with music, abraded her endless mirrors in which the infinite was folded and her curved hands stroke the air with an atheist shout and her strings snapped with a shiver
[...]
and the suitcase of Buckingham Club laid yanked, spread with the clothing reached by the road and the cracked window allowed the view of the eddies of dust under the imponderable carved sun
Friday (draft to a draft) • Opuss № I