Scraping Blackboards in a World Without Love

Scraping Blackboards in a World Without Love
and/or:
Short Waves in the City of Light, Scraping
Concrete, Dancing on Myth, Swallowing
Up All the Mercury Vapour in Sight
by Cocateau
The door is open, dusk/ can be so beautiful. So, too, green Prell.
The sun, the moon, the night, and the cold cannot explain everything.
A mountain cliffside with a stone below: a Chinese pictograph for stone.
One might well leave the Gare du Nord at the stoke of twelve and,  five hours later, disembark at Dover.
Star movement is measured by seconds of arc. Say a ball bounces into the pampas. Over the Andes. Bouncing/ yellow tennis ball. All the fine colours never seen again. White light does that, smoothes out those fatuous
rituals of pleasure.
The white light of Northern Finland does not favour Impressionism, but the chair is quite sturdy, scrapes cold concrete adrift in April glow. Luminous indicators and indirect lighting allow one to read clearly, and– with reckless exactitude, the wave-length of a/the station sought.
Know this: particles have wave-like characteristics just as waves have particle-like characteristics.      Strange/ but true.
That chair scraping concrete is nothing like montage
or, say, y’know, characteristic cut-and-paste.
The character for oil, it’s said, is a picture of a field with a derrick rising. From this Descartes concludes that the plotting of curves just might alleviate some rigors of higher mathematics.  Yeah. Line graphs and pictographs
serve us in many ways.
Hey,  it’s like, it’s like meteors are to comets as winter syrup to bark. Ayup.
Know thyself– know I’m sayin’? Anthony to Cleopatra.
Amos to Andy. Water is/ a dream, fire:
a deed. In many ways,
a birch is no longer
a tree, but a myth
of tender light, blue/
deep
in the heart/ of
your one-and-only forest.
Slam!