Waldron - Meanwhile Trees

in a disused shed. No wait, thats not right, first I hid my song in a tin, and then the tin I hid in a sock, and the sock in a shoebox, and the shoebox in a hatbox, and the hatbox in the box that the breadbin came in. So I concealed that box among a rummage of others of hundreds of sizes and sounds-when-you-shook-them, in that shed above-mentioned.

And Id begun to walk away when I turned and I saw that the shed was all lit with the sun, and I resolved there and then that I must squirrel the shed under the ground in a dilapidated field where dirt grew and ephemera lay scattered about like butter. And once Id buried the shed then I hid the whole field in the blue-red mountains, sliding it into a slot that Id made beneath trees and foxes and ants. And then those mountains I shoved, like that, upside down in the sopping wet bed of the sea, and the sea I secreted beneath a particular sky, and the sky under space, and space I buried beneath that pernickety edge of nothing. And now its still not safe.

something, a bottle or a vase perhaps, and when it first contacts the ground it does so in such a state of shock that it pauses there stunned, just for a fraction of a moment, before it comes to, and expeditiously collects itself, summons, despite its near panic, a sense of obligation, recalls just whats expected of it, before it tenses its body, scrunches up its eyes, fabricates from nothing an explicit pop and a mass escape from the suffocating incarceration of existence, a breakout that dashes obediently to its slot, that being the ordained scatter-pattern of pieces and bits, where it rests then in an array of elfin smiles that seem to celebrate relief, to relish languidly what they, for this moment, take to be their liberty and to smoke thin cigarettes with their small feet up in front of TVs showing film of countryside in Spring, the next cell door having not yet swung entirely shut.

When I was young there was nothing exactly stupid about the world.

In fact, in the good old days there was the thump and the tug of it, the way it heaved itself like a stone, yanked so to speak in glory, the way it fell up, crushed up, and then crushed up again, getting newer and newer, louder and sweeter, the way it watched its own face fall between its fingers as though its face were a handful of gold coins. I think I might have known the whole drag of everything going upwards, a tide that pulled me with it. Actually, I know I did. (You were part of all this by the way.) And the sky, well, where to begin? The sky was so adult, not imbecilic or thin or so-so or girlish. Did I outgrow it? Did I drink it, shoot it, find a way round it? Did I get inside it and drive off in it? Forgive me, but on my way to work this morning, even though the sun was on fire and the trees were up, I was in the apocalypse. Death is not what you think it is.

Its actually what I think it is.

He was thinking, as he rocketed across the Tuileries, top-hat steadied with one hand, cane gripped in the other, and with that coddled little smile still (despite the haste of the body that carried it!) goofing-off all nonchalant in the otherwise deserted high-school corridor of his face, that perhaps he might remake himself from something already half-mutated such as a hotel pool-soaked novel or something whose extra weight, as he would explain to Gaston later, would be promissory, such as the lavish body of a maggot. La scne: Paris, mil neuf cent dix. The city streets are wet with an old-fangled rain that feels, rubbed between contempo fingers, entirely dmod. Its winter and the trees have done avec their leaves, have choked them at the wrist, strangled every one until they each gave up their flat green ghosts, turned a purplish black, and dropped just as the rubber-banded barren nuts of rams drop and do germinate not at all in no hot earth. Oh, how he hurries crispy under branches, possessing, as he does, all the lightness of the lost!