and then our exile

it's cloud illusions i recall. though there is no true recall or even the clutter of echoes, as yet, there is only widening breach, the hordes screaming from pictish tattoos and faces contorted with hate, from these things, remnants, or can i call them that, after all, of reality, replaying, of the stages of displacement and exile: uprooting (which itself is a process, bound to history in mighty bind), severance, gleaning, and opening; after this, only oba-obaserving de 'ypocrites, mingling with the good people we know, a clutter of echoes, cities inhabited (dialogues that dither down reminiscent of the way it likes to rain) while once more (repeating, and someday the gourd to freedom) tasweef, the devil's devilish instrument, held by past words (or perhaps exoblame here is unnecessary). today only astonished by how much useless, unnecessary back-and-forth, which, had we foresight (wishful retrojection), i can only hope. life too short, now, i would say, had i, or, would and how could. often i have quoted: "having made a decision he could afford the luxury of regret", but now, nothing neutral, there are no luxuries to fall back on, only tattered trappings which too must be packed away to nothing, out of sight out of mind, ha, what misguided individual? unless it was irony misunderstood, in which case kudos and salutatory evasion.

(and this is also why this soapbox must end.)

selfiscopy.
-

but all my words come back to me
in shades of mediocrity
(- anyone know why simon & garfunkel split?)