The fatal Englishman

O LOVE O LOVER Autumn returns and I am at my Observation Post once more, my damn-you-England penitentiary. Every movement of the clock is death. Outside the moon winks behind those black trees - through the branches, their leaf skeletons.

In this dingy room, through the careful pretence of my days here, I summon the sun. In the sublimity of the looking-glass my reflection and I may slowly advance towards each other. Dumb as posts, back and forth, by rote almost. SENSE ITSELF is travestied as spectacle. Oh! Love. These intimations of what I mean; life's little games! I am the REFLEX MACHINE posing as a living being. Breaking my mirrors. Shooting slivers of glass into this pressure of darkness. But you, o love, you bend an ear to listen. You bend an ear to my secret self; telling you that we are deceived, occluded somehow, in some way. Embroiled in a fictional world that spreads over people and things like an anaesthetic. A permanent image haze that dazes ones senses, obliterating our reflections in their disgrace, ENGLAND HERE-AND-NOW dissolves away like a soap bubble & with it self, time, space, causality...

Perhaps you were always - have always been - here. But I was not, my love. In my nostrils is the sickly, airless stench of a different England. And I open my arms wide and try to imagine the hours dwindling until I may bridge this disjuncture and find you amongst the crowd once more. Leave this BLACK PAVILION, and take possession forthwith - leave it all in prose and collage; supernatural bodies, hither & yon, sheltered in gaudy folds. A paean to devour over our boneless eel-like figures. Yes, over. It's... It's all over. MY LOVE. Quisnam igitur sanus?