One does progress through metaphors*

The sun like a gong

The gong scything the memory of yr dreams

Your dreams contained within an umbrella

The umbrella opens its stem of roses

Roses are Fred, violets are Drew

Drew with the Indians, won against the Red Sox

The Red Sox of yr concupiscence

Concupiscent as a plum blossom

A plum blossom parachuting in the East Wind

The East Wind hot as a eunuch's breath

The breath as an instrument of meaning

Meaning like a drop shot into the net

The net of yr existence

Existence as non-existence

Non existent as the palm at the end of the mind

The mind garrots through a delta, not the Irrawaddy

The Irrawaddy of a peace accord

Accord me the recognition as befits me, a neck of state

A state bordering on madness

Madness like a sewing machine

A sewing machine : the way you look at me

The way you look at me = a slab of granite

Granite, the infinity of yr grit

The grit of the mill

The mill of the floss

The FLOSS of yr heart

The heart as a factory

The factory pumping blood into the eddy

The eddy runs into the ocean

My ocean runs in yr eddy

Eddy Merckx of politics

Politics as vol de nuit

Le vol de nuit of Hitlers ambition

The ambition knifing into you

You like me



*'There is no such thing as a metaphor of a metaphor. One does not progress through metaphors.' - Wallace Stevens, From the Notebooks.

I have long carried the following thought(s)/emotion(s) in my head:

  The next installment in my Nunzia Nanzio stories where we leave mike d. and rob g. and go on a walk around the block where they live:
  The people who live on and around this narrow, tree-lined, strip remember nothing, have no memories of their past, anything, except for an instinct to use whatever devices they find waiting for them in their shops every morning.
  So the bakers will switch on the oven and bake palmiers. The newsagents will turn on their cash machines and give early-rising people with take-away cups of coffee in their puffy hands their exact change for a copy of today's newspaper and a carton of milk. The lesbian shopkeeper will start roasting coffee beans for her Vitalux coffee machine. It gleams in the pre-loved dullness of her bookshop. It is called ————
  Everything works. But nothing means anything.