NELLY’S SOLILOQUY Yesterday I was visited by a swoon serenading me with a jaw-bone flute: “Nell eee , Nell eee, my dear old Nelly” Afterwards my far-fetched man imagined I told him I wanted to be in love, and all he said was, ‘Is that so? Well me too.’ I asked a question, to myself, really, but out loud: Aren’t you only (as someone said) a vaporous transient consciousness in an incidental universe? My far-fetched man overheard, agreed and added, that I was probably also, ‘just a wee bit de trop.’ An amber statuette of a man used to cost more than a number of healthy living slaves. I wouldn’t mind one, one with half a heart. I have been meaning to speak about it, I have several pages of notes and instructions and monkey-knuckle readings and a tortoise-shell full of pearls and financial instruments. My far-fetched man is noted at his bank for his financial instrumentation. ‘Volatility is proportional to the square root of time,’ he chants. That’s one of his that caused the big doom. Toward the end, he did an amount of night work and overtime and piecework and time and a half. Everything tired him, that far-fetched man, including what didn’t tire him. I wondered if my life had the right people in it, and if it wasn’t time I found an outside man? Tony Dash (this poem first appeared in AMBIT)
Posted on: Wed, 14 Aug 2013 11:38:30 +0000
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