trance the ibisworld

 
fleur de lys not, but hemlock and yet roses red, pink, yellow,
ligustrum fully gleaming green, the yellow variant of digitalis,
lilies abundant, pink, red and orange in honour of carolyn, the
first buds of saponaria, phlox and a wide assortment of herbs
 
still undecidedly in the nursery, bilobal firstlings, definitely out,
drawn, because of incessant springsun, rundspringa this fresh
naive sun still easily bearable, friendly, ecofriendly, drawing at
the anthracite earth this anciennity of green carpet when we
 
walked then, unforgotten and long, long forgotten, softly enjoying
this mildest of pains, pains of the antropocene, connected with
and dissipative condensed out of our collective retroretrieving
unmight, the sheer vulnerability of wo/man, shone by this light
 
and still we keep searching for the path, home, to the source,
in, out, up, down, left, right, through, before and after where we look
as an archingly achingly old GPS saying, like the birds “this is me”
“here i am” and thinking of the dead continuance “the world”
 
trance the ibisworld is © Aad de Gids
 

Image © Bas de Gids

between inexhaustive mappology

 
 
between unphilosophic ‘just a bit walking in the rain and before the rain’
and acknowledging a huge new tiredness of the soles of the feet and muscles
of the legs, arms, pulses, thorax, back, shoulders, face, mouth, calves, thighs and
fleeing the rain also a hazardous affair with halfly a sense of direction, plan
 
a tired jazz, an endjazz heralded because it gives a spread of soothening space,
that we’re heading slowly towards an end finally,bc gals and boys are we tired
even the boids are tired only MARS has this mussoliniesque presentism to
boss everyone around my god he would even boss a dawg around looking down
 
upon him, her, with that ‘go fuck yourself’ look, well when MARS isn’t tired that
then isn’t indicative for the levels of the meteorological and emotional tiredness
of the evening,  shall this be spring and how lonesome a saxophone, no distant
saxophone, uncertain trumpet , lyotard, with these variables we shall try to
 
start some mappology of emotions, scents (the magnificent loukhoum by
keiko mecheri, beverly hills, the eau poudrée, this almond-turkish delight confection)
a fantastically jazzy contribution to a somehow emptied out, dysphasic evening
an earned disorientation, an earned depersonalization, longitudinal saxophone
 
sexy clichéeing not so much as the desolateness of gritty tiles slabs of stones
in the evening which at once invite and make you forget to walk on them, walk
like a hooker walk like a banker walk like a streetwalker, a cigaretteuse who
sexily smokes her pall mall and spikes it with some coke, some laBrea decency
 
and this is the last evening all is still coloured and cold a spikey spring is waiting
to fill the greenery and furnish the globe also in ‘artificial land’ whereto our
sojourn inescapably leads us and she whore her polyester diaphanous miniskirt
and ‘tonight i am gonna sell every inch of my body’ a micropolitique du jour
 
between inexhaustive mappology is © Aad de Gids