In the beginning time, before even a word could be time, time took time, opened the Vault of Chaos, and let lights be lit. It was a bookish assumption and spanking new that made the ever always also begin. And the light resembled shampoo but with impact. A stark dalliance with meaning became normal, like hairstyles and salads, even without equinoctial rhythm. So normal indeed that gods and goddesses arose with sequins and an explanation for tutus. They rose and indeed became, with romantic storm clouds and the ability to whistle. In staunch Ovidian pluckiness the deities in full sashay chose the beetroot to plant where something special should happen. The Premier Deities in their emblematic swath of vestments and presumption gathered in colour, coloquy, and good times. Time as a single brunt looked simpler and spring time fresh, tho sparkling teeth was a notion of future time’s future gobsmack. The Deities, as gods and goddesses, or whatever and whenever, garnered wholesale opiate sanction and stiff union rules. Time would thus share the Vault of Chaos with the untimely and penultimate. Ticket sales would plummet but the world took form. Time shed the Long Dream for something more theatrical and boffo. The Deities got taller by inches and kept quiet about underwear. Rocks were born and scrummy carrot cake became plentiful. And so Time relented to sport and humans were brought out of the grass. The beginning of beginning could now begin. Chumps and wackos teased the muddy air with failed pungency and opium ringtones. Everyone became a plural for bête noire. When people learned about synonyms, they thought they now owned the map. Sadly no one could spell disquietude without weeping and eating twigs. Trees would not be long for this world but the people and these Deities chose not to care. Sandpaper, they agreed, could solve all meaningful problems.
The work becomes chiding of sunlight. The work is elegy and shaded. The principle ciphers as a god, in the way transience is purpose. Transience works this brief, ending fields, making trees concern. The hell of halting midway identifies the work of burning thru. Forever makes a sign. Sign makes worthy. Indeed the tramp of feet forward concludes any sentences but suggests more. Long sentences, stupid words. The caroling heard by Dante, brilliantine remorse for a better tide. The long road up from down, and turned around. The work then becomes the work now, as stained glass similitude. Anxious in the class structure of catastrophe, the baying song over all. Nothing to do but be done. Ruskin gave you papers to remind you. Slow battering concedes the earth in time. Time being functional and oblique. The worker inside sees the nation by exhalation. Transitive connection sports of culture. The class that ends becomes the class that begins, both left and right.
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