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Sung To Sleep
Editorial content |
Submitted by mute on Wednesday, 15 August, 2007 - 15:28
Andrea Brady Our country's enemies snore in the safety catch,
dream about owning everything, like achenes in the neighbourhood which is just their accessory they take to the air to advertise their species.
What viewer could believe them that a locum spirit floats life through it,
connecting all in death and harmony, that there is a god for forces: in spring
he’s allergic to their fuzzy fertility, a diverse country blots moving randomly in vacuums
which are actually everywhere full of water, and so full of life.
In a second they will open their anthers
and leave the carcass of their companies in process yellow up to insurgent stalk. In each punch
bowl of vegetal fibre, sunk nearly to dripping over the edge of its singularity,
the line, what have we come to expect a little fruit
for ornament: cool, paralysed, crispy, waste of cells going crazy on the tongue.
If anything happiness is
our common predicament, not knowing how to live in the bulge where our lives
bottom out, unelected popular incumbents, build capacity to make good choices from
a given list.
What gives to the raider, and to the day
blistering with tropical smells and agitations against the double glaze to get inside a cool study,
to the patron or the slumming trader, means tested but no uncertain exchange: as the cycle
trips back along the path strewn with interest no small wonder,
who will deny her that happiness laces together all the emulsions
on the cover she can’t shed, sticks her liquor in the morning, runs
in trunks throughout the videophoned day
and hardens as it cools for supper. See it up there
gold lamé and orange powder stooping to get you, tearing down the street. So happy
I would be sung to sleep by the noises. That capacity hovers unyielding over us, whatever we take
to prevent it. It’s the force of matter as extension, and will break us, or us it
subject: Finance & Trade | Literature | Markets | Poetry | War view pdf | 610 reads
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