Auld and knew

Ah, tu ne perds rien pour d'attendre, the wait is always worth it, my swirling little dervish…

There was a skirmish, backlash, 
Kyle of Lochalsh, didgery-doo, a gnu.
Whirlygig, thingamagig, help ma boab.
Or was it a squirmish, devilled eels and no can feels after the dos and don'ts, the wills and won'ts, I should her to think in the blink of another I, I, I. 

ô Ragged clause, and something kilt-ered, askew,                                          you!
Ten thousand ours and counting, whose zoos oozed flooze?

We hit the light ... fan d'angle



“To know that one does not write for the other, to know that these things I am going to write will never cause me to be loved by the one I love (the other), to know that writing compensates for nothing, sublimates nothing, that it is precisely there where you are not--this is the beginning of writing.”


“I encounter millions of bodies in my life; of these millions, I may desire some hundreds; but of these hundreds, I love only one.”
― Roland Barthes, A Lover's Discourse: Fragments
Translated by Richard Howard.