mean words

hard cover. bound spine. a stiff black card encasing all that is truth. I opened the book to find the pages torn. ripped to shreds. a story is placed into hiatus. desperate urges for a conclusion are stifled by a maze of pulp fragments. tape & time will not ease the pain borne by the destruction.

Without the possibility of reading - how could we align ourselves to the memory of meaning?

A horse tied to each corner of the page. Paragraph severed from paragraph. Sentence drawn, sentence quartered. Sickly smiles & laughters abound from the onlookers of this destruction. Stanza reduced to words, words reduced to letters. The letters are buried deep in the sand, & only the bitter head of the bastard vowel sticks out. A long and drawn out howl, a desperate & despairing question - Y? Y? Y-Y-Y?

'In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God'

I try to read this book. I am desperate, I yearn what is destined to be denied. I am without hope. My eyes tear up. My body stretches into the form of some tragic figure. Anxious whimpers as my hands scramble. I jerk my body forth. I heave it back. I desperately try to pull these words together. As if to re-animate stanzas. As if to set into motion the frame of meaning. As if that would suffice to make the word living. to make meaning. To make sense of what is this paradise lost.