Читать книгу On Malice - Ken Babstock - Страница 17

Don’t say anything funny. Isn’t that possible?

Isn’t that at all

times what holds one together?

Little fairy tales all at once. Stomach fright.

One never hears about compulsion.

‘Killed’ is a word with a star tied around it.

One can listen all night, they won’t

talk of ‘compulsion.’ Compulsion

is a wind with the unmodern cat

stapled to it. The anus constricts.

Needles of yellow and red light, little

aurora materialis and night eyes of the pig family.

At 19:45, over Gorno-Ataysk. August 1974.