and if this is not an injunction, it is only because there can be no such thing anymore, because it will all happen anyway, and it is all already happening.

We should talk, we should talk, we should make language spin itself out into the expression of that which we never thought we could express. We should blow words like glass out into spheres that fill bright with luminous vapour and we should dance them into the sky and tread them into the earth and dance and dance. Language, I think, either rose as a corollary of property or as a response to God. Or the Gods. Tread that out. It will gather under the soil like water holding crystals swelling perfect into softly swollen nodes of light and even when everyone stand together and starts to cry because they don’t understand why they are so touched or why it was not always like this or why it took so long, even then their tears will seep into the soft glass and swell, and the words will come, and the words with soften and expand and be endless for us. The words will be endless for us. At the end of the day we will all start to lean and fall together realising that all the while around us there have been other orphans all with soft warm skin and it we’ll feel pain suddenly weeping on each others skin each others smooth sobful throats but the sinking sun will be on our backs and we will be so happy and when the stars come out we wont see because all that deep soil will be glittering like stars and full of shoots of clear and lucid green. Inside we will drink, from an assortment of odds and ends of crockery gathered together from ordinary households over the ages, and they will sit pretty together in pleasant irrelevance, and once inside we will discuss things with words that expand and glisten and go on forever, and then someone will pause, remembering what it was like to own things and to be immersed in time, and will say “but look what we have left there on the wall” – and when we look up we will see hanging there the board to which our ancestors pinned the butterflies, and we will take them down and pull out the pins and although the butterflies will not live again perhaps there will be a breeze to lift them on their fragile wings and blow them easily along forever and forever in a quiet colourful nothingness, and if one day they should find one young man left standing on the dull verge and fall at his feet…

unending restless kiss.