A Mirror To Confess VIII Broken Metamorphoseon

My modernist device err and seems to be broken.  A wonderful toolkit is now beyond my control.  A frustrated nymph looks at a snake in the garden.  Now I fall like a stone, then I fly off like a mad seagull.

A glass organ blows through my vision of the world.  Here the horizon is moving into the distance.  It does not want to sit on a double swing.

You came from nowhere.  And from now on I can't look to somebody else.  You could slip through your pearly fingers every single phantasm.

You are lying on a hard couch, and the bedspread tends to slide off, I look at you and draw a sketch - myself.  My dearest gentle Me...

Suppose today you personify an interlocutor from the other side of the ocean.  And I share my speculative images with an outremer emanation.

Your strength lies in the freedom of (dis/as)sociation to achieve a particular goal;  besides, social pressure looks like it's profitable to be virtuous.  The vision of the travelling Viscount is still valid.  You understand the truth in a very pragmatic and dispersed way - horizontally; we have here the truth as understood vertically.  You establish; my compatriots expect: namely, they expect the indulgence of grace.  You bring it in a bright gift box. But this is not New Year's Eve at all. It is mundane as techno-apocalyptic epoch can be under the veil of Spring.

by Ed.Labintzeff