November 16, 2014 by petrujviljoen
Lo, low and quite, Quite! Behold the dust. It’s possible. Protect – the cotyledon wears the spirit orphan child, deflects the sun, keeps child spirit moisture fluid. Wha(r)t is aRt? This is for you. Walking Woman. Read the Poetics of dust.
Don’t you go to church? No! I work. Kaolin makes a good cup shaped hollow, useful emptiness.
This is for me. Ten, crops up. A boutonniere waltzes up the stairs, the man wearing it stayed outside, the pona cooks better on a braai*, South African style, oh! Blue cornflower heals too. A full number that. Ten. A myg = 0.00000050, or thereabouts of a bit of this particular blue. So. Just so much is enough. Who threw the voltmeter away?
But then, a dram, spelled as follows: ʒ = retroflexed … Oh. I can’t bear it anymore. Yes, I’ll have another Irish whisky, please, yes, I will. Just. One tenth of a measure. Just off-centre. The polygraph, ag, no man! The ponograph, I actually really can’t hardly bear it. The pain in the [(he)art] muscle measured, scores ten and she’s gone. Looking over his shoulder, looking back, a pillar of salt (didn’t you mean a pinch of salt? No!) skyclad stood there. Just stood. With one wing. Cooking in the palpable dust.