frank corcoran
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In einer eMail vom 16.01.2006 22:14:09 Westeuropãische Normalzeit schreibt FBCorcoran:
Your poor Sweeney, we now know, was impaled. He’d hunkered for drink (fresh Corbianco sixty cows’ milkings, actually) out of the (actually a servant-girl’s) heel-hollowed dinge in a saint’s cowshit. It doesn’t matter now.
Will it? Happen to me in my microcosmic Paradise, the sun-crazed head’s fluids babbling?
As I bend to whet? What dinge? An impaling Serpe, perfectly harmless, is no laughing lunge, will it topple me, given in to hubris or guilt or the drop of Corbianco golden milk? Or to my robust belief that I can restore the rent mystical body of down-firmament-streaming Christ?
Have I not bought more than I’ll learn to chew? Ho, coraggio impale thyself! Hah, don’t then be lowering the copper-head?
That’ll be Act Three. We began with the curtain-calls, let’m come and they will, we bought the hearth and heart’s history, those Corbianco cows’ stalls long shadows (- there was never a suicide in the best of families that I can recall) in the winter, I’ll be comfy by late April, would explore the ould eye-balls by the first week o’ July. Act Two consolidates, buys wood-worms, flogged antiques from back Viterbo, ho-ho, delights.
Understandably. No saint’s dinge in sight. Ho-ho. Late love can mature, can heal (before the impalement, that is), can dream and plan, allow delight over whinge: and when shove comes to sixty cows’ push, well.
Take proprietor myself atop my proudly, recently purchased medlar-tree ( - too thin these wan, sun-baked branches); shall I juggle my delight and the dinge? Cop myself on, mate?
Corbianco cows, I’ll be happy enough with that, have very little time for Serpe or serpent babies. These my sixty beauties (half are as calving gletchers; half just secrete) keep those at bay. Come down from my medlars?
Do I dare delight, great joy in just what?
We have, granted, just now impaled Augustine, we gored St. Paul, we done a Dan Flyin’ Tipperary Old IRA rub-out job on the Rabbis and the Kill Joys and on both unwashed armpits of Dopey Depressioni.
I flail, I sail, I hail my highest and freshly purchased medlars. Ho-ho.
In einer eMail vom 16.01.2006 22:14:09 Westeuropãische Normalzeit schreibt FBCorcoran:
My heart is white. Croí Bán. Them Corbianco cows will be my medal, my matins. They’re now lowing that our garden is ‘‘classical’’? Serpents keep insisting, though, on the ‘‘Romantic’’ character of red-ochre-peperino play, a higher symmetry resulting from the play of the up-close drunken trip-up on a magic garden’s railway-sleeper or a stopped Georgic sewer with, say, my Croí Bianco’s Stent blanching at the death of music since Verdi’s letter to Giulio Ricordi.
I did try to couple stippled (- why ‘‘stippled’’?) madness with the non-raving, wavy line.
Keep to things of the white heart. Even before we get into Trakl’s ‘‘Die ungebornen Enkel,’’ ‘‘Clann clainne nár rugadh,’’ your and yere and ours.
Mine is bluish, a purple ventricle about its proper business in North Lazio’s cow-world. Neither Narcissos nor Hiakinthos is what’s comin’ through on the Corbianco cows’ internet this tender - is- indeed - the- blue-black Montefiascone night, not a Grodeck in sight.