Saturday, October 06, 2007

The naughtiness of naught but our grasping

The naughtiness of naught but our grasping together the freely delivered aught–it can't be fingered. Always it unclasps itself freely beyond the Hands of thought. Do we share a secret yearning to be metaphysical? No, that's not our cause. In whispers of sweet prodigality philosophers' texts are passed between bars. An abyss too evocative of depths–a kiss, rather, in the twilight touching day and night, vertiginous, having leapt from vinyards inside the lips crushing noirs. Burst! O Waters, heed my maieutic call! Breathe! And Breathe! It's going to hurt like hell.

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posted by Fido the Yak at 10:29 AM.


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