Friday, May 20, 2005

grand pop vox (cont)

Il Cunto de li Cunti a grand title for a renaissance collection of racy fairy stories, a framing story, tales hanging thereby. Comme La Ronde, 1001 Nights, Canterbury Tales, a reference from Marina Warner, that comehithering don in From Beast to Blonde, good to curl up with yon don, spiritual daughter of Angela Carter, spinning connections between Mother Goose, the Sybil and the Queen of Sheba who was black but comely so Solomon saith in his Song sexopolitically nono but stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples: for I am sick of love but never sick of flagons which are raisin cakes in the Bible, the pervading misogyny of which I briefly discussed with the sweet brown–eyed Jehovah’s Witness, referring to the Book of Timothy, my name sake, Paul’s man, nay, son speaking mystogogically I presume.

Yes, yesterday outside The Oxford Scholar I ate a steak sandwich in the sun, the unrelenting winter sun & shared a jug o beer with Corro who shouted, crouched sere, benign & bemused with a word to this blond passing artist, a nod to this bald passing student, opposite the de Chiricosed, featureful facade of RMIT for which he is responsible.

Corro: I live in fear of something falling off it.

We canvassed the resilience & disappointments of the syndrome known as life, the case of L. Smith, legless in Pt Melbourne, in particular, the achieve of & souring of the season of Ezra Pound @ La Mama (cf Alison Croggan, theatrenotes.blogspot) & readers will be relieved to know I rose to the 13th floor of 15 Collins St in good Time & Order to consult with the theatre loving Dermatologist who found 4 solar keratoses on my face & crown & rid me of them with squirts of liquid nitrogen. Suspicion of a mole on my inside left thigh lingers, he did not pore into my pores adequately, nags a vox in my head that keeps rehearsing a phonecall to the Dermatologist’s secretary trying to speak with him, to meet for coffee (my shout) in the Paris end of Collins St, somewhere quiet where I could roll up my trouserleg for a doublecheck, his own second opinion. Doubt may be the engine of the scientific method but it will be the death of me, along with Forgetfulness bugbear of the Jacobeans & a few other things.
Tomorrow: a pornographical pickmeup

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