Sunday, August 07, 2005
Composed In The Pasture Of Your Skull
I Am The One Who Shot These Horses
Where do we go? Where is the road we’re taking? What did you say? Did you say something? Shut up for a second, OK? What are words? Give me a break, man. You see that large meadow over there? Here: look outside my window for a second. You see a grazing land. A paddock, but I mean an endless one. You see the horizon? But there is no horizon, baby, just something hazy in a distance. Use your imagination. This talk is about a solid ground with hovering mist above it, and eleven stationary horses. The horses are starving, and composed in the sub-zero pasture of your skull. They are ice covered horses. White and glistening with frost. Dutch beasts with huge legs. No one feeds them. Their mantra is a bursting gasp. Can you hear them? Those horses over there, with black eyes that gaze into you. Do you see them?
You hear them and you see them, don’t you?
Well, they aren’t there. They are nowhere but in you. This Blog is nothing but a goddamn apparition.