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FROM THE LAKESHORE, or A Few Cuttings Randomly Weeded Out From an Unpublished Typescript of YoreScrap the First
Streams never wear away.
Our memories are coming afloatin a stream of thought—here.
That’s something you tend to forget.
A young man, a young woman,
walking one beside the other.
An old ceiling cobweb—Horror—Unceasing wailing.
«The first thing I saw, a beheaded one, and I ran away»
Blood spurts in the sky over Bologna—children's corpses.
Blood spurts in the sky over Bologna—children's corpses.
Nothing—
Nothing could fill up or destroy this hollowness—Awful is the way in which we live this horror.
In a room, alone, to handle our dreams
always blending something more
than newspapers nothingness.
Lost twinklings—a time of silences and a farewell.
Bad weather coming—a cold grayness—
loneliness—after a farewell.
«This is the end, my friend»—
End of holidays, end of summer—Somethingbreaks an idleness, a leisure, a misty lakescape—
A dimming farewell—
A time of kisses, handshakes—silences under the rain,
below the clouds of lead which cover the whispering lake—a slow
below the clouds of lead which cover the whispering lake—a slow
but restless beat—and a dance in flashing lights—
water shining bodies—smiles—conversation …
Scrap the Second
water shining bodies—smiles—conversation …
Scrap the Second