Unaccustomed to New Glasses
I will put my sighting of
Morrissey down to the fishbowl effect of my new glasses and a lookalike fan on
a pilgrimage to the demolished Jacobs Studios in Dippenhall, who I wished, as
he hurried along the pavement, to be him.
The cut of the lenses fills out the edges of my field of vision, acting like collagen to give a smooth curvature to all that bounds me, and whence I was admitted of walking neither over nor past a rounded crown, I saw my tapered pilgrim.
People from towns and villages up and down the UK claim that Johnny Depp has bought a house in their neighbourhood – it is pleasing to imagine – and similar desires are implicated in innumerable sightings of Morrissey, Spring-Heeled Jim.
What is buried beneath this mound always just ahead, so that, lifting my knees too high, too high each time, I tread vaguely like a coupling rod as I scratch back with my feet beneath where I thought they should land; this false mound seen through the part of the lens near the rim?
Perhaps these bulges beneath and above me, and to my sides, are partially protruding spheres, but then where are their centres and what do they hold, these spheres I see overlapping our reality, beading its frontiers with a cambered facsimile trim?
Then the piteous figure, who moves like he is trying to climb a ladder with the next rung always missing, suddenly finds purchase for his leading foot and advances unexpectedly onto the mound he thought was false – he does climb, this Nephilim.
He climbs not one mound after another, imbrications, but an integer, one ever-swelling wave. Rejecting all icons, the seer and entitler, who lived for a time on The Borough, is dying at home on a mattress whose foam remembers him.
The cut of the lenses fills out the edges of my field of vision, acting like collagen to give a smooth curvature to all that bounds me, and whence I was admitted of walking neither over nor past a rounded crown, I saw my tapered pilgrim.
People from towns and villages up and down the UK claim that Johnny Depp has bought a house in their neighbourhood – it is pleasing to imagine – and similar desires are implicated in innumerable sightings of Morrissey, Spring-Heeled Jim.
What is buried beneath this mound always just ahead, so that, lifting my knees too high, too high each time, I tread vaguely like a coupling rod as I scratch back with my feet beneath where I thought they should land; this false mound seen through the part of the lens near the rim?
Perhaps these bulges beneath and above me, and to my sides, are partially protruding spheres, but then where are their centres and what do they hold, these spheres I see overlapping our reality, beading its frontiers with a cambered facsimile trim?
Then the piteous figure, who moves like he is trying to climb a ladder with the next rung always missing, suddenly finds purchase for his leading foot and advances unexpectedly onto the mound he thought was false – he does climb, this Nephilim.
He climbs not one mound after another, imbrications, but an integer, one ever-swelling wave. Rejecting all icons, the seer and entitler, who lived for a time on The Borough, is dying at home on a mattress whose foam remembers him.
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