Lonesome Walker

To live outside the pale
is to wither and die.
Beyond the pale
there are only dressed-up cadavers.

They are wound up each day,
like alarm clocks.
They perform like seal;
they die like box office receipts.

But in the seething honey-comb
there is a growth as of plants,
an animal warmth almost suffocating,
a vitality which accrues
from rubbing and glueing together,
a hope which is physical
as well as spiritual,
a contamination which is dangerous but salutary.

Small souls perhaps,
burning like tapers,
but burning steadily�
and capable of throwing portentous shadows
on the walls which hem them in.

All goes round and round,
creaking, wobbling, lumbering,
whimpering some-tunes,
but round and round and round.

Then, if you become very still,
standing on a stoop, for instance,
and carefully think no thoughts,
a myopic, bestial clarity besets your vision.

There is a wheel,
there are spokes,
and there is a hub.

And in the center of the hub there is
exactly

nothing.

Wer mal gucken will, wie es aussieht:

klick

Da bleibt mir dann noch, meinen Kollegen von der Windows-Fraktion viel Spaß bei der nächsten Migration zu wünschen, weil ich damit endgültig beschlossen habe, den LSD-Freunden aus Redmond den Rücken zu kehren.