Archive 04/05/10 - (2)

   

Time's Soundless Fury

                                                                  

Forever is Benjy Compson inspecting his pocket watch

(That hallowed timepiece, grandfather-bequeathed heirloom,

Quentin left ticking in his loving brother's loony senses,

When he slipped into sleep's womb, in the Charles River's deeps),

Checking to make sure that its missing hands

Keep picking jimson weeds from the back pasture,

Where golf-club shadows flail, like scythes, through the tall grass,

Keep stuffing succulent psychedelic stems between his lips,

Under the tongue of his moaning, slobbering, and bellowing,

Even as the handless hands drive him, in a bassackwards buggy,

Around the face of nowhere's downtown square,

As though now and then were a counterclockwise never-always,

The end and the beginning of an infinity of dead ends

Leading back to Dilsey's black, warm kitchen smells

And ahead to Caddy's honeysuckle arms and crying flesh,

Smack dab into Jason's loud, hardware-store-reeking breath,

Day after light-and-dark-shape-filled dead-and-dying day.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                                               

 

04/05/10 - (2)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 
 
 
 
       

 

 
   
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