“Wo Es war, soll ich werden.” - Freud
Coming at you, from afar, through the cosmic fuzz,
on a vector athwart eternity,
from a site across the plenum where it once was,
back to which you will return and again will be,
breaking headlong into sound, peal on peal,
and attaining to distinctions of night and day,
emerging, with quotations, from the starry real,
up over the wall of the things we say,
steady up, steady down into the peopled ditch,
here I am, there you are, the pleasure’s mine, same here,
and all the others with their sales to pitch,
each one provided with a speech to vanquish fear,
careening through the story, its rigors, its frauds,
via sovereigns, paupers, pimps and bawds,
slowing home, from Ibiza to the Norfolk Broads.
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