report 000013: da capo aria

but at the same time that there is no hope (perhaps the formula
should be altered: remediable absence is lyric's condition
of possibility), there is no regret, & no fear, & no anger. the dead

are only for the living a matter. cacophony of purpose here resolves,
however abruptly, into that stretch of calm water that is the sailor's
fear: but sun without mercy yet never surprises: in waking you have

already known that for which--. of you, like a thirst for salt. the brain
in its disbelief catches, keening, at a frequency greater than--can hear--
sometimes, an asthmatic romantic knows more than the wheezing-out

can tell. i think i'm unwell ha ha ha ha but we didn't. instead, flayed-open
our sentences, shook syntax's blackbox in laughter &. there are days when,
following you, i will compound insults to form entirely new and outrageous

slurs. when combined with alcohol, the extraction simulates anesthesia. but
that was never to the point. of your wit, the space in which           existed.
how in the hallucinogenic of anti-grammar we navigated, diviners &fell, from our

vantage pointed. as children, the secret language we spun. by what metempsychosis
will you train up another for me. that's small talk. leaves that collect
in storm-drains fill someone's need, less self-indulgent than--i will spell

in lieu for you, drinking, correctly. please rearrange. a drama i wanted
no part of. but you, my dressing-gown eccentric: who now will make the mothers
stop and stare? on a vellum sea at the world's edge, three men in a boat have

stop to greet you. in the back-alley bookshops, there will be a time--that
most formal move in your economy of thought /my economy of expression waste
lies, no mercy but in deflection, fascinate. i can go days without opening

my mouth. there has only ever be one rule: don't be dull. it's enough to make
a man take up the rosary. the obsessive's shot at every hundred-ninth. another
round, the way we spun, the way the gypsies laughed, bewildered, at our

in one another. there were days when it was unnecessary to be braver. i will
not be economical. what of that, now? little miss, how devil you are? :unable
to recall. what a wonderful discovery you were. "all i want to be," you said,

"is my own favourite writer." core disintegration/ this no lyric but my actual
question, professor: for whom writes one an elegy? the mind struggling/at-bay
to cry no caricature, no mere semblance of. a frustration--here where there is

nothing but small mewling & a rotten wealth of unnecessary adjectives. i do not
apologize. i shall not sing. however. in requiem always i will keep
you here/spun-up: this cabin where you found something at least to sing to. i

will keep as though you still there, in wait, safe in the mind's warm country,
that bourne from which no traveller returns--marching leisurely but with
purpose. for as long as I can have you--princeling--danke.