Saturday, December 05, 2009

mona deterritorialize




She winding unwinding it moves hovercraft to the boeing self. Not a seaplane but a flittering ring nearest the end . THe port and pier and the gully waves trample the closed forest and its rough rhythms not these slippery blues feet and the counting range of the accord and the hung for wish and the sleeping mister


No voice is worse than those the pretence of beauty