rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,
rejectomorph
flying_blind

Reset Fifteen, Day Seven

It was long my suspicion that, left to my own devices, I'd soon run out of coherent thoughts. Now that I've been so left for so long, I find I was correct. There is nothing in my head suitable for expression in formal speech, or any other form of speech. I'm not even listening when I talk to myself anymore. What would be the point? Being confined to a small apartment doesn't provide an alternative source of content, but fortunately there is my old standby, weather. The forecast now promises a 100% chance of rain Tuesday, a 70% chance of showers Wednesday, and a 30% chance of a few showers on Thursday. I intend to journal the hell out of that.

For now, all I've got is other people's stuff, like

Sunday Verse




Thoughts on Feeling Carbon-Dated


by Clive James


No moons are left to see the other side of.
Curved surfaces betray once secret centres.
Those plagues were measles the Egyptians died of.
A certain note of disillusion enters.

Were Empson starting now, no doubt exists
That now no doubt exists about space-time’s
Impetuosity, his pithy gists
Would still stun, but no more so than his rhymes.

Physics has dished its prefix meta. Science,
First having put black shoes and a blue suit on,
Controls the world’s supply of mental giants.
A Goethe now would lack words to loathe Newton.

It’s forty years since James Joyce named the quark.
Now nobody’s nonplussed to hear light rays
Get sucked down holes so fast they show up dark.
Nor would the converse of that news amaze.

It all gets out of reach as it grows clear.
What we once failed to grasp but still were thrilled with
Left us for someone else, from whom we hear
Assurances about the awe they’re filled with.

One night in Cambridge Empson read to us.
He offered us some crisps and seemed delighted
So many young should still want to discuss
Why science once got laymen so excited.

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