Daye 52 / The Astral Body

Daye 51 / Nuvoletta

nuvoletta in her lightdress
spunn of sisteen shimmers
was looking down on them
leaning over the bannistars
and listening all she childishly could

she was alone
all her nubied companions
were asleeping with the squirrels
she tried all the winsome wonsome ways
the four winds had taught her
she tossed her sfumastelliacinous hair
like la princesse de la petite bretagne
and she rounded her mignons arms
like mrs. cornwallis-west
and she smiled over herself
like the image of a pose of a daughter
of the emperour of irelande
and she sighed after herself
as were she born to bride with tristus
tristior tristissimus
but sweet madonine she might fair as well
have carried her daisy's worth to florida

oh, how it was duusk!
from vallee maraia to grasyaplainia
dormimust echo
a dew! ah dew! it was so duusk
that the tears of night began to fall
first by ones and twos
then by threes and fours
at last by fives and sixes of sevens
for the tired ones were wecking
as we weep now with them
o! o! o! par la pluie!

then nuvoletta reflected for the last time
in her little long life
and she made up all her myriads
of drifting minds in one
she cancelled all her engauzements
she climbed over the bannistars
she gave a childy cloudy cry
nuée! nuée!
a lightdress fluttered
she was gone
~ James Joyce

Daye 50 / The Rime Of The Ancient Mariner

Daye 49 / He Has Found The Point Where Heaven And Earth Meet...

Daye 48 / Wings

day by day
the moon gains on me
day by day
the moon gains on me
purchased a pair of flabby wings
i took to doing some hovering
here is a list
of incorrect things
hovered mid-air outside a study
an academic kneaded his chin
sent in the dust of some cheap magazines
his academic rust could not burn them up
i recruited some gremlins
to get me clear of the airline routes
i paid them off with stuffing from my wings
they had some fun with those cheapo airline snobs
the stuffing loss made me hit a time-lock
i ended up in the eighteen sixties
i’ve been there for one hundred and twenty five years
a small alteration of the past
can turn time into space
ended up under ardwick bridge
with some veterans from the u.s. civil war
they were under irish patronage
we shot dead a stupid sergeant
but I got hit in the crossfire
the lucky hit made me hit a time-lock
but when I got back
the place I made the purchase
no longer exists
i’d erased it under the bridge
day by day
the moon gains on me
day by day
the moon gains on me
so now I sleep in ditches
and hide away from nosey kids
the wings rot and feather under me
the wings rot and curl right under me
a small alteration of the past
can turn time into space
small touches can alter
more than a mere decade
wings
wings
wings...
~ Mark E. Smith

Daye 47 / I Dream I See You Endlessly Superimposed Upon Yourself

i dream i see you endlessly superimposed upon yourself
you're sitting on the high coral stool
In front of your mirror
always in its first quarter
two fingers on the water wing of your comb
and at the same time
you're returning from a journey
you're lingering
the last one left in the grotto
streaming with lightning
you don't recognize me
you're stretched out on the bed
you wake up or you fall asleep
you wake up where you went to sleep or somewhere else
you're naked
the elderberry ball bounces again
a thousand elderberry balls hum above you
so light that at each instant you're unaware of them
your breath
your blood
saved from the crazy juggling of the air
you cross the street
the cars hurled at you are nothing but their shadows
and as a little girl
caught in a bellows of sparkles
you jump rope
long enough so that the one green butterfly
which haunts the peaks of Asia
can appear at the top of the invisible stairway
i caress everything that was you
in everything that's yet to be you
i hear the melodious hissing
of your limitless limbs
the one serpent in all the trees
your arms at whose center the crystal of the compass rose turns
my living fountain of shivas
~ Andre Breton

Daye 46 / The Song Of Shadows

sweep thy faint strings, musician
with thy long lean hand
downward the starry tapers burn
sinks soft the waning sand
the old hound whimpers
couched in sleep
the embers smoulder low
across the walls the shadows
come and go

sweep softly thy strings, musician
the minutes mount to hours
frost on the windless casement weaves
a labyrinth of flowers
ghosts linger in the darkening air
hearken at the open door
music hath called them, dreaming
home once more
~ Walter de la Mare