smiling, now

April 1, 2012

done it. we have cut ourselves in twain, Janus, Jane. Call me Jane.

here is my face of war, or is it of peace? when you are as doublesided as tape, perhaps you are both at once, eithersided. Big as a Tolstoy, weighty as something never read.

I never thought I’d sanitise myself for nervousness’ sake, that I’d be- less, on purpose, to be less for Prufrock’s faces. Then again, here am I, cryptic as a swallow. it had to go. south for the winter, away from the familiar almost-cold, the driving snow.

what am I to think? pretender to no-one’s throne. here we babble. perhaps we disintegrate, die. perhaps it comes apart at the pretty red seams, or I patch it up in different colours, and it becomes- less, more, different. Another. Perhaps I shall do that. perhaps somewhere else things will continue as if they were never touched or slaughtered or forced across the floor in a waltz like time and merciless disillusionment. Perhaps we keep our disillusionments in our pockets, dispensing them like sweets for the poor, roubles for the hungry. Perhaps we are Russian. Perhaps our second name is Tolstoy.

Perhaps I have left and made myself clear, somewhere other than here, and here I shall be clear as day.

Perhaps it is a defeat.

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