Litterae nihil sanantes

Poetry used to wake us up. Ezra Pound and Nikos Karouzos. The loud sun and the warmth of cracked radios and old tapes. No vowels. Helicopters blasting out weather reports. The window always half open, an urban post-it note of that other cerebrality, the feet. The re-creations of abstracted grids and enclosed cities after breakfast. Nothing to do with communality, nor sociability. These mornings were the proud equals of nights balancing at the edge of barstools, and the smile of last drops, the smile of last drops, the smile of last drops. An eye to an eye, hands akimbo, apart from the index and middle finger, caressing the asphalt, the ink-stained marbles with our elbows, our scapulae. The light here is not, and we find ourselves praying in front of fixtures and the momentary . The overcast generalisation of uniformity, of the others -note the plural- has substituted excess for overdraft. Decadence for weekends.



A/gain you say?