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I garden Sotere’s posts, lifting the vegetal sentences from their bed and laying them down here. Node-rich. A bit fleshy. Stalingrad, Neruda, Che Guevera…
These are not sentences. They are words: prebiotic matter. Sotere, sometimes you write about the cafe and sometimes you talk about the war-time already passed. A strange rose-gold flashed/warped through the room I am writing in as I wrote that…maybe it was the sun. What was that?!!
More connectivity…I fled from poetry tonight, overwhelmed, into the armed embrace of a video game. Creeping through the concrete outskirts of a secret Nazi rocket fortress, rifle gripped in teeth and sweating bullets, a glimpse of a terrifying bas-relief a hundred feet tall in a giant wall: a winged rocket ship, feathered like an eagle, superimposed upon a whirling widdershins cross, and I thought, the terrifying continuities of Empire, and then a sniper’s fictional bullet turned my borrowed lights out. Soaked in sweat, I rebounded here, and followed the recent-posts to Sotere, and listened to his pleasant voice talk of the small human continuties of revolution, and thought perhaps everything is all right in the world then, even as the Eagle breaks and bloodies itself upon the frozen flesh of Stalingrad, even as the mad destroy us the brave grow up in the grass between the metal feet and perhaps we shall all meet, man machine and Mother, and grow, and Bhanu, Jimi Hendrix said :”Gold and rose, the colour of a dream I had, not too long, ago…”
Thanks (with head spinning)
Tags: Che Guevara, Days and Nights
Posted in Uncategorized on Tuesday, January 26th, 2010 by Sotère Torregian.
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