Desmond Kon Zhicheng-Mingdé, 17 listopada 2012
There is garbage outside the gas station. A single mound of used furniture. A love seat, mildewed with blotchy stains. A foldable table, its missing leg ten yards away. The attendant’s wife is walking around with a gigantic tarpaulin bag, half-filled with things. Her daughter is seated on the pavement, (... więcej)
Desmond Kon Zhicheng-Mingdé, 17 listopada 2012
How does one plunder something like peace of mind? The old pirate looks strange with his sarong bag in the bustle of Zhejiang. Even the eye-patch is there, but hardly ornamental or a political statement. There’s a long scar down his left eye, thick and callused, as if to say this story is one that (... więcej)
Desmond Kon Zhicheng-Mingdé, 17 listopada 2012
There is a stillness in the air, like the mendicant with his begging bowl. He doesn’t ask for alms, only food like a bowl of cooked rice. The old lady scrapes some from the bottom of her wok, charred and bits of black, and hands it to the boy outside her window. She gestures towards the mendicant, (... więcej)
Desmond Kon Zhicheng-Mingdé, 13 czerwca 2012
Ego: Remember it’s an author’s death if you can’t haul this out to the verandah. By cruel and unusual punishment too. This happens when you share your opinions.
Id: What gives? I’m just standing here. I think we should mix and match the vintage Alexander McQueen with the Armani jacket, (... więcej)
Desmond Kon Zhicheng-Mingdé, 13 czerwca 2012
The ball will not bounce, steel canvas, floor markings to measure its rubber tracks. Stand in the idyll of the island. Step onto its boulevard, dance in its piazza. Freedom within sides is a retrogression, id within id, solvent, ethereal, edge of space. “Draw me into the outside to walk an inner (... więcej)
Desmond Kon Zhicheng-Mingdé, 13 czerwca 2012
Georgia Desmarais taps each wall to check for a weak spot. A clue like Rodin first reading Dante, then Baudelaire. “Is today Wednesday or Thursday? Where are the light switches?” Georgia is growing wary, her eye like Max Ernst’s Chinese Nightingale, its iron beak as cold to the touch. No warmth. (... więcej)
Desmond Kon Zhicheng-Mingdé, 13 czerwca 2012
One of the drummers said Gerard’s a nonvirgin virgin, which doesn’t surprise me. But he seems so self-assured, as if he’s travelled the world, and seen it for what it is, and sort of laid back into a comfortable platitude.
He meditates, that’s what. He has all those good chakras properly (... więcej)
Desmond Kon Zhicheng-Mingdé, 11 czerwca 2012
“I’m coming over in an hour,” Gerard leaves another message. “The casserole smells great. Made a coconut cream pie as well, and hid some Ghirardelli squares in it too, the way you like it. Hey, maybe we should stay in this year and chill, y’know, hang out a bit? Looks like it’s about (... więcej)
Desmond Kon Zhicheng-Mingdé, 11 czerwca 2012
I like to be left of centre when it comes to consciousness. To be poor in spirit, even health, but not without faith since the sun has risen for me from the east every morning. And it’s not a grandiose sight or manifestation, just an everyday occurrence like going into the garden and watering the (... więcej)
Desmond Kon Zhicheng-Mingdé, 11 czerwca 2012
They doused the salted field with iodine and dreams.
“Except for the barley, let those keep their gold and morning.”
Logos, but for letters.
~
There will be snow and rain, same day of fine things.
Mixed up. Mixed, enamel in champlevé
damascening like a dance, the curling, whey hope.
(... więcej)
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