by Jim Lawrence
When Lenin was fifteen (the 20th century won this 19th century war) he started winning games from his father. Columbus was dazzled with the record of what has happened in things, by the bright hues of the Caribbean, Spain, everything about chess. The moves were read out during the national news and the figures of bravado ossified young and she, like a young year, the Cuban revolt against the iron teeth in Brazil's flesh. A finesse was indeed the distant towers of the misplaced cathedral beyond the slow-motion hurricane of lost things, resurrection at the end of Holy Week for the Indians can often be marred by no idea of a royal chess scandal. People kept coming in and looking. I was intrigued by the called-for order, but not this one.
A lifetime is not enough to learn, owned the cow; others drank the milk, classical masks. Their response: “hold in your hands.” “Evil exists.” Truth is not the secret of a few.
And that's when he turns on the heat and style. The maintenance of bells for hooves in sounding streets, Europe after the rains (surfers are poets too). Endless, the slow swarm, the spinning past is important in all human societies. Ah there's the moon, pale horse, pale rider: a blossoming cloud of lace and tarnished sterling, marbles in Paris in a loud dark winter.
She found something obscene in the calculated humanity of the flourish: “Danbala is riding her.” The price of coffee dictates all these victorious public, the chain of cities were urged to send in postcards with bicyclist among the trees beside the lake. “He is the wind, you structure of impotence. He said God likes to talk to Himself.” Caissa maintained the tension until the very last moment; she looked so good in the morning.
Dada would have liked a day like this: the formation of a society away above a harbourful and bits of string. Brown leaves of old books and the collection of revenue were closely linked under the Umayyads; the tradition of poetic composition continued to gesture, her voice was full of “Yes”, seeking attention by personal attacks. The global economic crisis (Vultures over Lake Maracaibo, the giant steel concern Corus) has by no means escaped the love of others - online communities, trolls and people. A ghost is someone, but the swarms of penitents have my songs and the Arabs are of time and distance.
The winter sun is pleasant and it warms my heart with asked terrible questions dwindled. It was a face which darkness could kill.
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A cut-up piece composed of randomly selected extracts from: Pictures of the Gone World, Lawrence Ferlinghetti; Open Veins of Latin America, Eduardo Galeano; Chess Monthly, April 2009; Katherine’s Dream, The Ghost, Waking in the Blue, Robert Lowell; Count Zero, William Gibson; A History of the Arab Peoples, Albert Hourani.