I’Fio’ur Selections from *’

\ESQHATOLOGY

night vacillates - lighthouse—like on the frenzied edges of my eyes

my fingers .touch soft islands soft and indefinite islands

while l must again invent the sea to quench my daily thirsts

how shall I perceive whether l'm a-fiction with multiple details thought out by a silenee in want of words by a hand in want of touch by a shadow in want of a skeleton or simply god in want of a universe

, shall i praise all this cock and bull intellectualism in my search for soulward tracks leading to new iconographies

, shall I sit on bloodless conventions in rosy tight-assed composure v dreaming warhol imagery (on daliesque horizons obscenely impotent) lost in obsessed concupiscence

or shall I rather praise all this sexless mondrianism (fruitlessly ascetic & ‘ wrapped in metacosmic purity) in moderate but passionate sounding terms which deep down no one really gives a damn about

or shall I simply gaze at all the ruins and fix my mind on no future till i have sucked eternity dry and no mystery remains

mm; ms 1591mm ‘2'”6‘,‘ 19‘7‘43frégfé37‘

hyMrien Arsenault

so little time for youth and so long to remember its passage

one weeps softly

under leaden autumn skies

while memory like amphora retains the fast deminishing remembrances of time past

without a spring of fire i lose all traces of my former steps the sound of my former words the shape of my forgotten thoughts

I wrap myself in ashy silence

the mystery of my being has fled me as l renounce all attachments

l calculate my hopes and deem the cost of my failu res

7 I have shed my leaves

- the last ones - and the naked cliffs entreat in vain the fast departing swallows

between my ribs winter now hides its icy secrets

in my blood the sun flexes its weakened muscles

the terminal season blows away the final vestige of a forgotten spring

I have shed my leaves and the nakedness of my soul no longer sings its limited existance