Thursday, November 12, 2009

which way is prepositional

Up at 10 after a late night movie date with the hole-in-the-wall television and post-viewing literary session in Tiberium. Dragging the grey matter around on a leash, urging it to synaptic willfulness with cheap Earl Grey. How to properly kern the shuffling thoughts that dangle carrots and fishnet stockings before myopic vision. And where are the blue-handled scissors? There are only two proper rooms in this flat and precious little storage. I live with no-one. Kneading frustration into dough. It rises stubbornly. Has the wheat gone sour? Where is the rain that was promised? I forego the vitamins and prop my knee out the window. Track back and forth between the washbasin and the kleenex box, plucking dust motes from the air, reverting to a childhood habit when they were Sights.

I wish I was as handy as a Prufrock poem.

The bead doll climbs the neck of a vase which housed volunteer sunflowers growing from a rubbish heap. The sun lathes across the autumn sky. An engine roars overhead. The neighborhood dogs are subdued. It'll be dark soon; thirteen hundred is four hours away from gloaming and raccoons who march across the yard. One has a milk-white eye.

"This is the sort of cleverness up with which I will not put"
paraphrasing Winston Churchill's quote

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