Friday, April 21, 2017
a child kept from the font
wuddit
wuddit (j)
(the jars of ills and blessings)
as if the small red convertible had found its little parking space
before one of the public vertical brutalist mansions
parked between the endless repetition
the small red convertible whose license plate reads so effervescently
VRGNDKTR (pteradactylorifice) so
finding its place among the presentile herd of even smaller grey or pale green sedans
already parked
outside the row of shops bookended by a bank or shops like
elsa / coventry / diocletian’s magpie / and martyrs
the store at which the little red convertible is parked
to beg for us a discreet patience
for some not to be in martyrs
is itself a martyrdom
for some the media haruspices
taste like tripe
eaten in a stew for breakfast
while sitting in the church basement
along with the village firemen
and their families
this is no au-delà
no repugnant formula (or formulalessness)
that the bird is also a bird-handler
and a lure which might stay
the emblem of the seal of plenty
from being anxious or secure
dead clods of sadness or light squibs of mirth
there is no dithering phantom of romanticism here
to stuff the tripe with its own
dévidoir
but still
it is hard to understand the existence of a shop called
martyrs
where the only products sold
are falconry hoods made for humans
made from the finest kangaroo leather
and dutifully inscribed with the phrase
metaxy eleutherōn kai dulōn
(the vary meaning of the little red convertible)
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Irrony Observes The Earthing.