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[redwithoutwhy-blog]

strings fall

Whatever it's about, it makes me want to be a better mannequin. Bring down the air, the clouds are low. Hang parsed clothing from the sky. Hang the clothier. Everywhere we listen, the rustle of gravity. History on the beaches, in Brooklyn, at the county fair. Fare lady, give me to eat. How I perish of consumption. Let it come down, from the clouds, as if destiny at last. As if. These are the days of falling bodies, finally. Let the top of time spin so as to rest its left side, announcing the impossible geometry of our project. Of a project. The smell of heather beneath the snow there will be no thaw. Sight of a narrow wrist in Kensington, a gilded window. Hand in hand we dance ungainly in the alleyways let it come down. A plague upon their houses, all seven billion. The weather turns, hold it close, as if in apology, the substance of our undoing. Undone. Dull apogee of forgetting, forgotten. What is there to remember, after all, in the light of the last beacon, extinguished? How we read aloud and there was no plan? Said we were kids, another hymn to mediocrity? This way of meeting in the middle, marionettes, dangled center stage. There is no audience, too late they recall. Thus embarrassed. Before no one. Come to nothing. Strings fall from the rafters they stand tall.

[redwithoutwhy-blog]

Gornje Stoliv, Bay of Kotor