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vacuums.
How soon has time roused minutes to corrupt
And strain me forth yet leave as one not me
All that I am for now! Is the present only who
I am for now? Is my bleak past more who I'll be;
Immutable and even by the second, more, then
Who I am, at present? Besides the dull ideals,---
Useless and still heavy on the mind with
Implications narrow or broad enough to say
Not much, be not more than a brief toy
Of the intellect, the psyche---should my brain
Give more to this future I grasp for, still, yet
Do not sit with, as a changeling recognizes
Rarely what it is,---changing in the mirror oft
It looks deep into,---foundering, seemingly?
And yet this does not come too close, even,
To what it is about my lone position midst
The stars,---in tumult to assign me place.
In fact, the troubled things, events most foreign,
Do more once looked at, recognized, in me,
To bruise my head,---but since there's nothing else,
I have no choice but to bend backwards and
Observe my own damned asshole, just
To find perspective, make things clearer in
The sheer force of no cosmic place of sure
Redemption, yeah, and aught to come as soon
As time goes catching up with hopping
Heels to my cold, formless, chained, lascivious
Personality,---enough to paint me further as
An eloquence that dogs me in a slumberous
Haze, a drugged pursuer of my ends, a quiet,
Yeah, enough to be the silence of an age, yet little
To me once I put it down, dissemble grace;---
Rather it is I who catches up with naught
But naught, who lives up to the void, then
Falls into befuddlement, crude insanity---
Who hops his hellish heels in a manner
Darkly, hungry for a fresh mistake.
So I go on, and paint the picture thus:
It will not suit me to remain without
Speech, nor does a minute’s recompense
To me, that is, the giving back of stoicism,
Elemental traits, brave and humane,---eventually
Softening in the mind with doubt, with woeful,
Breached events into time's wound---offer much
To sway this life into being preferable. The
Twisted sense of some ultimate identity,
Achieved only through bent spines to observe
That majesty foregone---and it will foil
Later, anyway, with learned circumferences
Beyond the whole parts of my running knowledge---
No, none of this persuades my vacant soul
To fight, go on in life as this, drawn out
In lengths, inventing with its grasp a ledge
Above the precipice of time I hang off
Of, dangle, as a man, no, as a doll, might
Hang, limply, taxed by the very wind
Within this vacuum of imagination.
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May/4/2012, 4:58 pm
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Re: vacuums.
Or maybe, if you are interested, you'd like to take a listen to Mr. Yeats set to music by the Waterboys:
http://www.mikescottwaterboys.com/waterboys-mr-yeats-album.php
(Scroll down to listen to an audio of Sweet Dancer.)
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May/15/2012, 6:55 pm
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