beginning to end of
a line
ahead of itself
such that there it is
with its head
feeding
on its own tail
but tales, tells
not more self-annihilation
than growth
from something like a self-making self-same
comestibility
that is,
starves and satiates
on a hunger for the
meeting with itself
whilst also all the time,
of course
spinning out –
out-of-control of course –
fattening itself up on so much more than itself,
yet feeding, and feeding on, foremost
that for which it feeds
(everyday nutrition,
in this sense,
the mere bare bones
of a much more temporal appetite)
so, spends time
spilling into itself
after stinging itself
always there also feeding back
future biting history
history, the old biting
and old bit
bleeds into the salivation
salvation
of a continuity
that presses forward
by pressing its fangs
probing
into
a hitherto
basically, orbit on its own axis
something in time able to time its own questions about time
minimally independent
of the most immediate answers
of an otherwise questionless timelessness;
hunger for itself
line forced into contortions
often getting quite fed up
but through that same bloatedness
already layering the appetite
reaching the round-about point
that will be the stomach –
swallowed itself
and out the other way again –
to stomach
the next moment
of a self-nurturing
nutritioning;
satisfaction,
the present-ing conditions
of a re-turn to an emptiness
that bites with the fulness of a line
turned to look at itself
at once
the opening and closure of something
in time
capable of life –
introductions –
beginning and ending in ways
that do not have to end the way begun.
The Writers' Circus 