Wednesday, October 15, 2008


Et ignotas animum dimittit in artes
Ovid, Metamorphoses,VIII,188

"Once upon a time and a very good time it was there was a little moocow coming down the road and this moocow that was coming down the road met a nicens little boy named baby tuckoo..."
As you ponder o'er the pages of your old-paged,squeaky-smelling book you are tired...and suppose the lights are out and the night is as molten wax and your old chimney is burning with an alarmingly still've chewed the end of your long twisted pen enough to allow a blasted thought creep out of your mind and now you are idle,doing nothing.
You had seen it all.How we twist and turn and wander through the meaningless mazes of thought...intricately carved structures they are,but lead to greater voids at their ends.Burning fag...end smokes deeply while fire goes out...rolled paper left like crumpled leaf.What,why,how,when,where,which,who,whither,wherefore.
So are we here now,for the flash of light to fall.In dead nights.

1 comment:

sanchari said...

some people grow up sooner than necessary. can i count on u?