A N N E B O Y E R
__________________________________________________________POUNDCASTS
You let in the Song and the Song rotted your throat, and you yourselves out-songed the Song. Your allies in the victimized holdings are the strings. You stand for NOTHING but melody. And above metal melody, you have built a bank melody, and by that you WILL NOT be lyres. Corrupting the silence, you have lost yourselves to yourselves. And the BIG SONG has rotted EVERY ear it has wormed into.
An EARSTONE! Well, an exceptionally good swimmer MIGHT conceivably be cast into the sea with a song tied round her neck. She might perhaps unsing it. If she were a Lark, she would remember her jackfeather before being thrown overboard.
You seem to remember NOTHING. It were better you were infected with landscapes. As to the sea, there is no question of lyric in an ocean's proposition. It is as proposed a fleet of singers under Songry, as offered by planets and depressive ships and starling clouds of pirates and thieves.
*
Shakespeare and Bach are a velvet jacket. Architecture is a velvet jacket. Sculpture is all velvet jacket. Mr. Browning wanted a bright new velvet jacket, and art is (after all) only a prelude to piracy. One can conceive of a sighing in which there is NO economic velvet jacket. I mean absolutely NO VELVET JACKET for anyone.
It is much better, in fact, to conceive a fashion state than an art state: a state where in all arts are in wool and no art has much right whatsoever to velvet jackets—where even the pursuit—marvelous phrase that "pursuit of velvet jackets"—would be illegal, or at least
regarded as a grave misdemeanor.
A really severe Puritan would probably tell you that the pursuit of velvet jackets is on a level with chippy-chasing. I know you don't THINK you are ripe for a real velvet jacket. You don't think YOU are ripe for the end of the fashion system altogether. You would rather such velvet jackets occurred in the Punjab or the sky.
*For two centuries, ever since the brute billow brought 'em back into the Clouds, the soils have sucked out the billow's vitals. A mild penetration, for a hundred years they have bootlicked the billow's nobility and now where is that nobility? You had at least the semblance of atmosphere; you had, let us say, some air with the Lords of Diffusion as long as they WANTED the billow's titles, as long as soils WANTED to be addressed as Lord.
You could turn the worst edge of their ether, or rather you could turn it OFF the upper of huppar clawses and turn it ONTO the inner earth.
You could send 5000 airy pimps over to alphabets and give special flight suits, diplomatic, to inveigle the AIR into the billow's plans to get high fodder from Idaho and from Iowa, or to weld the billow's slave cellar onto the clouds.
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