BACK TO BLACK

Back at work, I sit and listen to talks about budgets. Budgets meant to cover ideas. Poems by Alisdair Gray come to my mind. Especially from his Old Negatives book. I want to kick myself into attention, but I remember that I don't wear mountain boots anymore. I'm back to black, Roman sandals, and the habitual desire to be a tall man. But I get exasperated as I realize that I can't quite make my re-gained sense of cosmopolitanism after summer fit this framework. The heel-less sandals ruin my equation. Next month I'll be having tea with head of states, or some such. I try to anticipate my femme fatale look for the event. Spying on myself. I think I'll go for high-heels, put my brain in a basket, and let my senses blacken the night. I'll call the emerging contours spike geometry. A negative of thinking lust.

Meanwhile, Alisdair Gray for you - all in capitals, as he likes it. Words on stilettoes.

STATEMENTS BY AN UNCEILINGED BLOOD

MIND IS A SKY-MACHINE

KEPT STABLE BY THE BREEZE OF BREATH

A RACKETY SLIPSHOD THING OF GUT AND NERVE,

PATHCED TUBE AND TWISTED CABLE.

THE ENGINES OF THE HEART AND LUNGS SUSTAINE

ITS WINGS ABOVE THE BASEMENT OF A VOID.

BOXED IN ITS SKULL,

BRAIN IS THE ANEROID BY WHICH WE GAUGE

A LEVEL THROUGH THE PRESSURE OF OUR PAIN

AND STRUGGLE HARD FOR SOME

DEGREE OF STABLE EQUILIBRIUM.