maybe it’s the words we forget, maybe it’s the sentences we can’t finish that save us
day after day the words they use decay softly, this makes them wise, its makes want to talk again
sometimes over coffee in the kitchen, or while stirring fish soup over a humming gas jet, they begin to accustom themselves to that feeling of tenderness again
language opens up the same wounds as love
everyday all the good words are burnt in a clearing the size of my heart
our joys and our misfortunes are made of the same words
is it silent where the future is? how do you get back those moments words have lost for you? (with words still moist from that other world)
so much depends upon a fresh thought in the middle a frosty red plum
instead of god or the word, the splendour of black
even telephones have lost their voices
words cows words cows words cows words cows words cows words cows
ah, the pleasure of being a word, with other words, in an elegant sentence
why do expect these dry syllable to frame our shapeless worlds?
if we are not the words, can there be a story?
two words, three lies
and always the terrible machinery waits in place
words always arrange themselves to tell the same story, things will change, but words are heretics, and later in the fire, they will deny it all
these words send me aching towards another mistake
beware when an obedient language parts, we can only descend into an empty heaven
a long sentence slouches against the door like an axe with nothing to do
each words a trojan horse
which one of us will be bled to death tonight?
time now for the crying of statues
a man fell in love with the word, but the word didn’t care about him
the man looked for it in a dictionary, a thesaurus, the encyclopaedia, the newspapers, on signs, but the word couldn’t be found anywhere
the man recalled the word meant bird, meant sky, no, it meant homeland, perhaps it meant all these things at once, maybe it came from nowhere and meant nothing
the man can’t remember the word and it won’t let him rest
my father said that when he was young he saw a Greek word leap from the sea heart to the clouds and carry his village with it, but that was when fish were fish, and the the Mediterranean was still a myth
the last word my mother spoke left a small black hole in the air outside her kitchen window, just above the lemon tree…it’s still there
so here I am, a thief, stealing from thieves
Peter notes: “William Carlos Williams writes about ‘…the ifs of language…’, which I take to mean the possibilities or the potentials of language, that are beyond dictionary meaning. It’s what’s outside the frame, what is absent that interests Williams.”
Peter also notes this by Antonin Artaud: “This is all that language is good for from now on, a means of going mad, eliminating thought, rupturing; a labyrinth of foolishness, not a dictionary into which certain pedants from the environs of the Seine may channel their spiritual awareness.”
Peter: ‘It is the duty of the reader to take the writer to safety.”
If thought needs words, then they both need proof. This is what language is, a neurosis for reality. And maybe thought needs further proof; in the sound of language, in its music. Music then becomes the sound of thought, its proof.
…the proofs of language.