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FROM THE LAKESHORE, or A Few Cuttings Randomly Weeded Out From an Unpublished Typescript of YoreScrap the Third
… Tanks are crawling in ye medieval streets of ye ancient town– Unmoving, strained, alone, I sit—the sun of march, 1977, drills my skin— I had never lived—even playing shadows were no more— Murder did spread itself in a cool darkness of march, 1977— Everything...
FROM THE LAKESHORE, or A Few Cuttings Randomly Weeded Out From an Unpublished Typescript of YoreScrap the Second
Here only to rest— Here I spent everything—alone— mirroring for awhile—and smile. Illusion—Illusion— Skylines and lakes, and this same illusion— heard here in loneliness. At least a wish to cry—in a room— to cry for a woman to be here—lust, longing— Of...
FROM THE LAKESHORE, or A Few Cuttings Randomly Weeded Out From an Unpublished Typescript of YoreScrap the First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 afloat in 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,...
No Other Memory
Running–Runaway storm faraway backwards– Cold reality of dream–turn back. Beyond the dunes the sun seemed shining– Earnest, neat palm-trees–white mild shaking, the tents–the lake–for the children. After supper she showed him starry forms– Breath of the...