From chaos to drift,
the inhuman landscape,
snatches of music,
ensnared in the fiction,
the inescapable illusion of our being.
The dream returns,
half remembered, half forgotten,
False flick, false form, but falseness close to kin,
From the rubble of artifice,
The wreckage of the day long gone,
But things must go their own way
Reborn as myth from the commotion its left,
Beyond our control,
Where humans must enact their fate
From chaos to drift.
From A to B
stomping between being
it is what it is not
& is not what it is,
the big arsed hairless baboon
from what it’s left to what it will be
A to B the myth of it’s morality,
the memory of what it’s forgotten,
what it should be, at play with the day.
A to B, in the transit shift of the scene,
closes the world where we belong,
without belonging in it all,
at that point beyond fiction,
the nothingness which is everything.
Notes towards a supreme fiction. Wallace Stevens.(italics mine)
Being and Nothingness. John Paul Sartre.(italics mine)
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All the Babble of the Souk