To say it without saying.
To finally say it.
As no-one ever has.
This is a new book.
To get the words down as they come to me,
the connections as they come to me,
the pictures as they come to me,
from wherever they come.
To make it without making it.
Not to create — it is
already created. This is
a new book.
***
No mannered obscurity. But not
no manners. The reader is
invited, by the little words at
line-ends, to continue.
I told myself I would not
write about writing, would not
emulate. Yet
here I am. Grey
and cold, channelling
a grey channel into my stream
of consciousness, barely able
to string three words together without a pause.
I was going to say,
Verbal fireworks if necessary,
but in this they seem not to be.
The only colour is grey.
This is a new book.
Its cover is orange. Hot.
It is not helping.
I haven’t said it.