[spectre] GRETA THUNBERG

[Séamas Cain]

_______________________________________________


GRETA THUNBERG

     Will there be a final weather-vane for the final weather on planet
earth?  Will I be green on a grass leaf during this final weather?  My
Antinoös and I lifted our eyelids and brushed on the grass the bugle of a
slouch of verve as we gazed at the woman at the heels of the bishops, so
much cooing that a windmill trembled and growled for a weakling and a
eunuch in the midst of a meadow of nightmares, nightmares that were so
written in red ink, like the daydreams that were written in yellow and red,
that we could not ignore them.  I like them, yes my Antinoös, the dreams,
my dreams, that forgathered with my special releases, beneath the fangs of
a vertex of curls.

     When will the eunuch make forays at the morning of day, the forays at
a glazed famine of oratory?  Will I summon a strange horse without any
twist of girling or that other twist, the twist of simple witchcraft?  My
Antinoös and I knew shoulders and noses to thrust to flags, flags of red
and green, flags of white and green, that so moved in the bottom of an
ancient pit.  Would we cook a traitor for the ward of spittle in the final
weather, or cook the dewdrops that will be inspected for the true source of
creation in an odd time?  A red car is brought forward on a sunken forest
with drizzle in a pouch revealing the cooing of silver webs.

     Will my Antinoös and I lift the lids of a dark and weary day?  May we
boil a lizard with a manuscript, in soft red cloth of turf, his bare toes
or my silencer, in difficult sweat?  We will be sewed together with a smile
of the sting of a plaice or a softer sting from the marsh-hen.  My Antinoös
and I will be wrought and wrought not, with his golden hair that is
illuminated against a polluted spire, as a fish in the water goes hissing
against a palisade of malaria.  My Antinoös and I will sleep as if our very
lives depend on a total sleep, though our slumber will be lightened when
the sounds or the odours of a metallic swamp can be heard in the rustle and
the torment of the claws and wings of the fetid owls.  Will Greta find the
true source of creation?

     Séamas Cain,
     Northampton, Massachusetts

_______________________________________________
-------------- next part --------------
An HTML attachment was scrubbed...
URL: <https://post.in-mind.de/pipermail/spectre/attachments/20200224/18983764/attachment.html>