but we must feel there is something amiss when we come home & find michael stipe taking notes by the hedge yes, we know: it’s the end of the world through any crooked passage way where tongue and fingers work a flame is where we’ll find the brittle skin of fame, shed caged in the language of singular intention there is nothing more than this apparition that feeds from below to spite us Trying to account we count and recount our ancestors and actions, in an inquisition of guilt why must we feel guilt with what’s amiss? every tried and quartered thing or looked up into the trees and witnessed the blood eagle perched with outspread wings just as he remembered it. Back in Athens , surrounded by the Junta; terrorised by the silence, the slow leaves blowing rage through the broken, open windows: everyone unsure of what happens now and nobody in the Agora had ever heard of REM. Their number one hit/their rapid eye beat/kids rapping on the streat/the ground trembling and bucking/the sky serene ignorant this unconformitory splitting me in two Two halves of a whole, one of which knows what is amiss… Of what was always amiss, will ever be amiss this something/ this thing/ amiss. A miss? A Miss? Amis?
but we must feel there is something amiss
14 December 2009
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