Evan Parker – Toward The Margins

Sour wind blowing cold in nostrils, eyes.  Crying; the sadness of bitter cold.  Erie glimpses of invisible phantoms playing around, circling, flying by the ears, blowing the cold on eyes and skin.
Pressure rising, scurrying about.  Climbing the stress filled inner sanctum higher and farther until there is only more to go – here, not somewhere. The eruption is endless and dull and stressful.
The dark is a beautiful place. Lonely, pristine, the satisfying calm of  black and the absence of light.  It will hold and cradle.  It will disturb and manipulate.  No shadows.  The rhythm beating inside grows harder.  Descending.
Whining far away, something is whining far away.  Laughing too.  Celebrating, dancing, in a play – maybe.  
Sorting things in reverse motion.  Silverware, bells, filters, ring and moan in reverse.  The curtains are moving closer.  The shadows flicker.  The grinding starts.
Tearing into the heart of the machine, the waiting is played out to the music of the act.  Eating, drinking, the soundtrack is swarming like angry bees around the focal point of their upsetting orbits.  They turn to the microchips, they become the microchips.  Storing and functioning happily, their anger is all gone, and all they see and are, are themselves.
Clumsy stroll up the street.  Passersby’s move through the invisible goofiness. One of them belched and it was smelt and heard.  Like the Slurpee from 2 days ago, it was sweet, cold, colorful, smelly.  
The frantic groping  and touching will inspire more of the same.  And that will inspire more of that.  Until it cannot last any longer, which in turn will inspire fucking.  Which will inspire inspiration afterward.
Dropped the thing, but didn’t bother picking it up.  Looked at it, but it meant nothing.  The thing on the ground being how it is, never touched again.
Pain like baby mice and roly-poly’s doing their business while the sun beats on the roly-poly’s, their hard shells of insect protection shining in watchful eyes, and the mice won’t see the sun because they’re only young children of old mice that taught them not to look, but to smell and feel and sense their way on their ways.
Tumbling in squares, going through triangular cycles.  The vehicle moves and churns, but never realizes that it’s the vehicle for a larger vehicle.  Churning, moving its own way about, around, through.  Fading.
Confinement in beauty.  In small places.  Moving in circles and low pitches, slowly.  In the dark stopping.





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