In the vignette the lady sipped from a crystal
goblet, eighteenth century, whilst gazing through a lorgnette out of the
gleaming bubble glass firelit candlelight glow to blazing logfyres among warm
damask rococo imbroglios. Swarming the
beads of consciousness scientifically balance on the nose of the law. Hey, tickling the nose of reality, once
again. This is the immutable ‘way of the
particle’ which can but follow the tracks of the grand special cellular
game. Given aeons of rattling
progression we reach to the age of the courtly dance, the periwigged real of
quadrille quatroons on cantaloupe plattering coaches, at midnight, at the
striking of the clock, at the charming of the cat, at the bat’s brittle
screeching flight, under the moon, under the moon, in the trees, automatically,
as wings aflap in the dark, as hooves of carriage-wheels clack, upon the
highway of moon-scudding clouds rides the silk-emblazoned lorgnette-lady of the
crystally-space real, a forgotten path, a street in the town where you used to
live. “Must’a dreampt it!” he
mutters, yet strangely a curious tangent feeling creeps up over him as the beams
take effect and he’s transported back up to the other side - experience of actual consciousness now, for
you. So saith the tall-collared figure at the grande ball, the great tete-a-tete, the
lace-figured, dapper & dandy dithering gathering of glimmering and
beglittered aristos in archaic garb quaint.
The goblet in her hand threw back the scintilla of swirling honeyed
honeydew honeycombed light of a golden - - Raising now upon the sunny banks of
wakefulness bemused his glance falls upon the crabbed and gushing manuscript. {{{{{ Clarity of Perception |- entranced before
daybreak’s feathery fingers of rose-golden white dawn will waft and droft and
drift him up to the surface clear of the pond of slewth. * oh
but nonsense said the Ambassador; you
cannot possibly think such a
thing. But he could. ]]]]] &
the dripping of drips loudly outside in the quiet night of the street dripping
and the house clicking the clock ticking house floor-beams creaking and clicking
at night – torn up paper and semi-conscious ink transformations found
accidentally on the radio of the future – these things you tell of, you
vouchsafe to dream of, can never be- quoth the ambassador once again - energy
of the universe in his merry old eye! *
So, under the alfluence of inkohol, old boys be’d a staggering and a
swaying home along old old country roads of Ireland (stout) and France (ye
wines) and the old life goes on – no electricity in them days of course – bla
blab la - and ink so many -crystal-jewels-of--perfect-miniature--spinning-orbitals-back-to-the-scatter-mosaic-bee-beads
-
Bartok:
6 Romanian Dances
Bartok
“From Island of Bali’ (Mikrokosmos)
Bartok
plays ‘6 Dances in Bulgarian Rhythm (Mikrokosmos)
Louis
Armstrong & his Hot Five; Yes I’m In
The Barrel
H.P.Lovecraft: Mobius Trip
daybreak’s glimmering wakefulness….
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