In einer eMail vom 16.01.2006 22:15:09 Westeuropãische Normalzeit schreibt FBCorcoran:
My heart is white. Croí Bán. Them Corbianco cows will be my medal, my matins.
They’re now lowing that our garden is ‘‘classical’’?
Serpents keep insisting, though, on the ‘‘Romantic’’ character of red-ochre-peperino play, a higher symmetry resulting from the play of the up-close
drunken trip-up on a magic garden’s railway-sleeper or a stopped Georgic sewer with,
say, my Croí Bianco’s Stent blanching at the death of music since Verdi’s letter to
I did try to couple stippled (- why ‘‘stippled’’?) madness with the
non-raving, wavy line.
Keep to things of the white heart. Even before we get into Trakl’s
‘‘Die ungebornen Enkel,’’ ‘‘Clann clainne nár rugadh,’’ your and yere and ours.
Mine is bluish, a purple ventricle about its proper business in North
Lazio’s cow-world. Neither Narcissos nor Hiakinthos is what’s comin’ through on
the Corbianco cows’ internet this tender – is- indeed – the- blue-black
Montefiascone night, not a Grodeck in sight.