Wednesday, August 16, 2006

Politics, or the world made stupid- it used to be sort of funny, via a self-preservative failure of the imagination, maybe I should try pickling. How many versions of the white man's burden can be spun?- lay it down already, buddy, let your white birds smile &c.

Did anyone prophesize these people? Only Wallace, come in Wallace:

Tea at the Palaz of Hoon

Not less because in purple I descended
The western day through what you called
The loneliest air, not less was I myself.

What was the ointment sprinkled on my beard?
What were the hymns that buzzed beside my ears?
What was the sea whose tide swept through me there?

Out of my mind the golden ointment rained,
And my ears made the blowing hymns they heard.
I was myself the compass of that sea:

I was the world in which I walked, and what I saw
Or heard or felt came not but from myself;
And there I found myself more truly and more strange.

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