If I
Enter the defunct elite
Lethe lite
A never-coming-Bacchus- kid
Waist narrowed just on one side
Like a sideboard with one draw pulled
Or Highway cosine for
Constricted flow
Would I know
The distillate listless
Worm-wrists of foetuses?
b
Well,
Something is missing
Between life and death
The Unassigned Breath
A sigh-long breeze
Time seizes and ceases
c
Something fundamental minds the mind
Sin passes for deductive reasoning:
A slice of narrow instance on a plate
Creates emotion in an empty place
d
In shades of undigested light
I roll
My BO is the label of my Maker
e
Pressure lets the air cascade
f
This is my winter planting scheme
For a garden in the oven
You are, oh my soul,
How the banquet crumbs are factored
.

This is superb to read.
Visually appealing and intellectual in its challange, I will be making frequent visits in order to de-cypher it.

I just love the imagery and the sophistication the 'weirdness' even
I know it has hidden secrets.
fun
fun
fun

Mox

Thanks Pete and Sophie -- oh, crickey, flabbergastingly generous is what you both are.

Ahem, what does it mean? Well, amongst a heap of tangential stuff and stuff stuff, it's about the lack of diffentiation between life and death when memory mixes it all up, since memory is always retrospective so if you recall anything, that moment is actually defunct, deceased, but it's still a form of survival trimmed to personal bias: memory is a sort of quiet fame. It's also about unlived lives, death that is simply air waiting to be breathed, transitional memory, things that have lived but never drawn breath. It's about using words to create something benign out of something with no feelings, no inclination other than the laws of physics, no awareness. It's called palm for several reasons: magicians can make things vanish by palming them -- having them reappear somewhere completely unexpectedly -- or to have the initial thing transformed. And the lines of the palm can be 'read' -- Fate is supposedly already drafted there. Palm, the writing on the self.

I bet that doesn't make any sense at all!

Oh it's all about a French farce: hahahahahaha!

Crickey.

Thank you -- but that is soooo spooky about Nietzsche and me! Flipping heck! That sent shivers down my spine. Do you think I ought to contact Derek Acorah in case Freidrich (is that the right way round for those vowels?) is attempting a come-back using me as his vehicle?

Mmm... I think you're right about congregations of thought: ideas tend to resurface. But I still like the idea that sin is deductive reasoning. The rationalisation of motive to permit an act that is blatently against someone's best interests (the sinner and/or those they involve). Instinct takes away the rational part -- deductive reasoning is supposed to be a thing of rationality and logical process. Crickey, I prefer my take on it to his. Just call me Ms Big Head!

Yes, the more I think about it -- 'the slice of instance on a plate' -- those moments we marshall as witnesses to make acting against our own moral code/mores/consciences more palatable -- sin seems more appropriate than instinct. It's the knowingness of sin rather than the instinct (impulse without thought) which is the better paradigm here. Well, it is for me. So I disagree with Mr Nietszche!

And of course, the concept of sin is something imposed by society so antithetical to instinct which is neither imposed or learned but hard wired through evolution. Transgression is all about self-knowledge. Instinct isn't. So there, deductive reasoning which is measured and dialectical (the sinner versus society installed in his/her own awareness) cannot be mistaken for instinct unless instinct is actually consciously acted on -- and not just recognised in retrospect.
Crickey. We're exercising each other's grey matter is what we're doing!

I tell you, Sophie, I am like a dog with a bone when an idea grips me. Well, like a vegetarian with a particularly stringy carrot!