Skip to main content

Masters of Faust They're the Gone Kings

fig. 3b) figure elevation

The construction of any stylistic work with seemingly random elements suggests by contrast a hum-drumming of the tools of interpretation and their potential. But first she'll console him. She'll declare her love quickly and then move on into the second act. A formal bridge in any well defined arc of narrative if ever there was but not to be confused with any real presence or heft. If they were believable they might be excused for their fluidity or for something red. But they don't deserve a reward for plain old utilitarian mendacity.
The voice of epoch is to be expected and it's found again and again in such dear works of calculation and preciousness. It's plain that it's derivation is the chuff of a sad engine sneaking around the bend. We'll watch this thing as it tumbles into hysterics. We'll go mad. We'll be gone from our choice of fantasy in the space of so much poverty when we should be well in our mind. Instead in our eye's we will be poor bent and drooling simple. But we should be plain and not marching in droves with the bitter colors of this thing left on us like a fucking stain. Its such sadness to waste any plutocrat, even here...
Barrister's Clerk: Undulate waves of gold, and bricks, and wizard poop.
Stenographer's Witness: Tableau form of a greasy peanut stained little tableau.
Barrister's Clerk: cadence and pattern TBD, yolk of the plow and simple yolk of the plow.
Stenographer's Witness: Again and then again we'll see.
Then when we're finally awake in the third act our voice should be dynamic instead we'll be cold and alone. Here is where we discover that we're in the stable and we're hungry. We could be better and in greater control but we've been left at the low end of our threshold. We neither settle nor abide we're standing idle and slack with the steaming team and its bucket of mash and grain. The golden chaff of hay at our feet through these silent scenes. We're supposed to experience the apple of sweetness of romance and the depth of its failure its falling and its finality. So after I die then Charlotte faints. She'll bend and succumb to the lasting dark but you'll experience this as the profound echo of your relief. So after I die, when I'm gone and the curtain drops then I'll go without pity or rage. - From an unprecedented review of Werther.



Popular posts from this blog

In fashion, passive is to envy the figure smote.

Juniper, cedar and all that's old tends to settle on the bus in the corner by this door. It's not quick, joints are popping like failure. Left alone in the kitchen, looking for matches until it can light the stove. "There once was a night here," I've said as much before.
Corn conjured syrup from the corn that I brought from the back of the store. The simple pleasure of falling into that warm slip isn't like drying off or tempting the man at all. It's a lottery with pages of never knowing it all the first time that I was there.
A three way intersection where the street is wet. There's shrink-wrap that's been spooled across each of the pedestrian walkways. It's secured with bulky knots to the street lamp, the sign post and the scooter at each of the corners. There's a garage door or something else done up in yellow with blue steel doors. In the street there's garbage and soon enough an umbrella will join your car keys.
There's alr…

Got a dog in my earring (an instance of 3)

H' after everything is a mailbox stamp knows. Don't, it's all bad. Like a captain bad.

Own Mah Own Rose

What say the fallen in the Vestibule, late to dinner  Warm as a garden chair Yes to that, to tea and all  in the green as pale as peaches will get 

Turd Grinder IV: Keep me in line for a little while longer, just until you have to go again. The dark wave and the first jolt from my morning coffee are elements that have yet to sheep. Looking through a ton of old glass is hard. Sitting down and sifting through the odd bits of sparkle and dust left inside this hidey-hole at the bottom of this calendar. There's almost always more bitter mixed in there then there is the sweet.  Fontso: I'm so happy-happy to see that this work is being edited down. All of it's been sitting on the back of my desk forever. Where plastic gets soft in the sun and the desks window looks out south all day long it's always so hot. Turd Grinder IV: There's safety in warmth, freedom from reprisal among the pillows, in the soft down. The clock inside is as deep as a clouds kiss.  Fontso: Onion thugs, yello…