Post by TheWallsScreamedPoetry on Nov 22, 2012 16:47:52 GMT
This is interesting from the Green Songbook.
Was it some attempt at a short story or just some rambling would be dissertation from Morrison that he never finished.
We will never know unless fascination 127 ever reveals any clues to what it is.
Page 29 & 30 (Untitled)
I was going w/ a girl that summer who was nearly my age but still in
school. The night she graduated we spent the night in my
friend's house, who was w/ his family visiting relatives
in Georgia. I had to climb thru the window while she
held back the screen. Then I let her in thru the back
door. We couldn't use any lights. She had brought a
flashlite & a traveller's alarm clock in her purse, which
she was never w/out.
Page 28 & 30
I got out early & stole milk & a Sunday paper and sat in an
unfinished house. To wait for it to get lighter. The floors
were concrete & there was alot of glass. The windows
weren't in, & the doors were empty. Wiring was visible &
gray nickle like slugs were scattered on the dirt
floor I sat on a sawhorse & read. Then a pack of
neighborhood dogs approached the house, become silent,
sniffed, & entered like dogs in a wind, a storm raising
their backs, as they approach like jackal. The leader
edged closer & looked at me. "We jackal, we sniff after
survivors of caravans, we reek bloody chaps on warfields,
no meat, of any corpse deprives our lean bellies.
Hunger drives us on scented winds. Stranger, traveller,
peer into my eyes & translate the horrible barking of
ancient dogs."
Page 32
We sat like that for a long time, staring.
Pages 33 & 34
I thought I heard my friends calling me. I resisted the
idea for as long as I could & climbed out onto the
roof. I peered over the edge on both sides. No one in
the alley or the streets. No convertible packed
w/flashing sunglassed heads. Mark was dead. Vince was in the
freak house. B.J. as good as dead in jail. Alan & Bruce
sitting on a state farm shoveling shit. The others dead.
A few left who don't know where I live. They're at
the other end of the world.
Was it some attempt at a short story or just some rambling would be dissertation from Morrison that he never finished.
We will never know unless fascination 127 ever reveals any clues to what it is.
Page 29 & 30 (Untitled)
I was going w/ a girl that summer who was nearly my age but still in
school. The night she graduated we spent the night in my
friend's house, who was w/ his family visiting relatives
in Georgia. I had to climb thru the window while she
held back the screen. Then I let her in thru the back
door. We couldn't use any lights. She had brought a
flashlite & a traveller's alarm clock in her purse, which
she was never w/out.
Page 28 & 30
I got out early & stole milk & a Sunday paper and sat in an
unfinished house. To wait for it to get lighter. The floors
were concrete & there was alot of glass. The windows
weren't in, & the doors were empty. Wiring was visible &
gray nickle like slugs were scattered on the dirt
floor I sat on a sawhorse & read. Then a pack of
neighborhood dogs approached the house, become silent,
sniffed, & entered like dogs in a wind, a storm raising
their backs, as they approach like jackal. The leader
edged closer & looked at me. "We jackal, we sniff after
survivors of caravans, we reek bloody chaps on warfields,
no meat, of any corpse deprives our lean bellies.
Hunger drives us on scented winds. Stranger, traveller,
peer into my eyes & translate the horrible barking of
ancient dogs."
Page 32
We sat like that for a long time, staring.
Pages 33 & 34
I thought I heard my friends calling me. I resisted the
idea for as long as I could & climbed out onto the
roof. I peered over the edge on both sides. No one in
the alley or the streets. No convertible packed
w/flashing sunglassed heads. Mark was dead. Vince was in the
freak house. B.J. as good as dead in jail. Alan & Bruce
sitting on a state farm shoveling shit. The others dead.
A few left who don't know where I live. They're at
the other end of the world.
