The Fire of Days

You make your way to the house of spirits.
Your soul spilling over with sobs.
The mist that rocks your dreams
Is a loincloth coloured by night’s shadows.
Upon the mayfly’s skin you leave
Words from your language whose roots are life.
Henceforth the fire of days will crackle under faggots
Where grass mingles with the patience of time.

KAMA KAMANDA
(published in: FIRE nos.29/30 2008)

the object of this object that the stretched out fingers almost touch where the stretched out fingers end to the right of the body almost parallel still to the ground to the bed to the furniture

in the shadow instantly and briefly maybe lest the shadow covers the whole before even the slightest movement of the fingers lest it be before even the slightest movement of the eyes the slightest flutter of the lashes that still cover with their shadow the face itself still in the light

lest the shadow makes the object of this object disappear on the sand into the folds of sheets still more or less in the colour of the furniture and lest the eye then wide open is unable to perceive lest

reminiscence in step

  suddenly

  well before ineffectual

  almost nothing
  no doubt

HELENE PRIGOGINE 1921-1988
(The object of this object (fragment) - unpublished)