Gerald Burns signature    


Cratylene workshop notes leave spare keys about like sherds pieces of
language too much talked of, and we observe (tiredly as Eliot, keeping it) that one
consequence of a large gold ball is a dull clunk, but little ones exhibited with lunate tweezers
and a fey flute maybe six and a quarter inches long have (looking back) tiny stone balls
between the lips and’d likely make some noise, she fingers pressed on the stone floor
under the sculptor weighed down nearly by his muse’s long hair like a framed French soap
ad leaves on that stone two tears visible a half-hour later dried, the ticket
of leave to go away from the baggy suit with arrows. Asked what to bring
from London they said gold here cups (none like horn though a couple tapering like
horn mutes) feature in relief frogs from above large as scarabs. To do a thing in gold
is to want a little animal, copper eaten by acid and the surface burnished. For us
the chips from Muller’s or other (Egyptian folios in Bridwell, tombs coins talismans and building fronts) or these,
miniature drums, are on a par as made, vessel shaped like a flexed leg and foot in
meaty colors just fine, effigies with mirrors in for eyes or human teeth here and there.
And the roughnesses in crowns and so on were to be ignored. Dedication is slightly
shinier circles smaller than dimes on a cool floor high in the air outside a Jimenez
bronc roper with eyes she observed screw-in fifteen watt red lightbulbs, canonical
human skull with glitter not dust because that’s a whoosh under hoof
with curl like a whipped cream wave.





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