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fr_defenestratoThis is a reworking of the first paragraph of the novel I was working on in the early 1990s but never got anywhere near finished. Even thus tweaked it works better in paragraph form, but it's a strict sonnet nonetheless. The tagline to my previous entry (Tous les matins maudits du monde) set me thinking about this bit, Pyndeo's fervent wish that he could wake up to a different, better, or at least more sensible reality.
I'm still at least one week behind on sonnets; for whatever reason I've not been inspired with any nifty (or even seminifty) ideas.
Of all the curséd mornings of the world, I had to wake to this one. I have made this painful journey—consciousness unfurled, dragged up through mists of memory and replayed in bitter mocking tones, an analog of birth's dread trauma—fifteen thousand times. You'd think, just once, it wouldn't end in fog and fever; that the reason and the rhymes of this preposterous beguine might just condense into a logos. They do not: I always end up pineal-deep in dirty budget motor lodges, dingy dustbowl dives, with utter solitude served hot each meal, and Jerry Lewis for dessert.
I'm still at least one week behind on sonnets; for whatever reason I've not been inspired with any nifty (or even seminifty) ideas.
Of all the curséd mornings of the world, I had to wake to this one. I have made this painful journey—consciousness unfurled, dragged up through mists of memory and replayed in bitter mocking tones, an analog of birth's dread trauma—fifteen thousand times. You'd think, just once, it wouldn't end in fog and fever; that the reason and the rhymes of this preposterous beguine might just condense into a logos. They do not: I always end up pineal-deep in dirty budget motor lodges, dingy dustbowl dives, with utter solitude served hot each meal, and Jerry Lewis for dessert.
