I REMEMBER. I REMEMBER :
Remember, surfer, thou art but dust. It is the blight.
Wherefore, then, this mess about ashes in urns ? Or is it the sport angle? ( – the morning wilfullness , white bliss, electronic page delicious, calling out to me now : ” Ora et labora!” )
Is that it ? That all ? Sure now ?
It must have been nineteen fifty four, the early June morning already hot, suppressed excitement in the men all ready for go, harnessed horses frisky. The still still hay-knife in its oiled mowing-machine sheath ready for bloody murder, three cleanly cut off legs of a rabbit and an erring corncrake, its unfortunate nesting-instinct.
Far in the future lay her scream ( still dormant in June, that suppressed, silent energy, is how you saw it ). Far in my future lay this thrust to write this out now: how the eyes were filmed over, watching her interior soap-opera starring the greats of culture, a politician, an urn.
Well, that June fused the whole thing, the breadknife, blood culture at its cunning work, silence after Her Big Scream, white silken legs and the locked up meat-carver.
A child´s June bliss, hay smell now in these pixels. ( If you believe that, you´ll believe anything ) . Silence not always the best policy, no little sir. Maybe the muzzle. Wash her strait-jacket; hang out in this marvellous drying day, as they oil the mowing-machine before the huge horses´ nostrils begin dripping green streams of snot.
Get a grip on! You’re a man and not a June whinger! Stop your own inner scream right here or you´ll get a good slap ! Mind that urn.
