FROM THE LAKESHORE, or A Few Cuttings Randomly Weeded Out From an Unpublished Typescript of YoreScrap the Fifth

No word for beauty—no word for

stabbing wringing horror.

Time flowing here at the hotel—
swelling, mined from ye inside—
Here, from stale, gone by concepts of time and so-called reality
we brake loose for awhile—
Only a dismal memory brings us back
filling up our looming future—

Wind in the sky over Bologna—dead bodies—

Compelled forever to return to work—

Pictures aired here at the hotel—

Our minds bombed by time-worn concepts of time—

We brake loose—Only memory brings us back to shit—

Our looming future is not better:

shit-flooded streets—

Whispering wind.
A time duration and a light wind resound—
They play or they swim—
and back, looking like streams or sighs—

Far inside a weary space, every trouble far away—

awnings stirred by fading shadows—

and mists and bodies—the shore in sight of the hotel—There,

under the shadow, I sit, thinned off by a wish …

#Silent Smiles