2011/06/07

Sunk Home, the True Key Slots to Its Matrix

I won't post here what's ignited my moleskine because I need and want to protect multiple parties' privacy. I can say entirely new galaxies in which to matrix my own complicity have been discovered, none of them good, all of them irresistibly juicy.

Hey! Look what Creamy brought us!




Walked to the door and dropped it. She loves us. She was at the party Sunday too.

Holyfuck! Look what I just found looking to complete a joke in links:











WEDDING THE LOCKSMITH'S DAUGHTER

Robin Robertson

The slow-grained slide to embed the blade 
of the key is a sheathing,
a gliding on graphite, pushing inside
to find the ribs of the lock
.

Sunk home, the true key slots to its matrix;
geared, tight-fitting, they turn
together, shooting the spring-lock,
throwing the bolt. Dactyls, iambics
--

the clinch of words--the hidden couplings
in the cased machine. A chime of sound
on sound: the way the sung note snibs on meaning


and holds. The lines engage and marry now,
their bells are keeping time;
the church doors close and open underground
.