Amos Weisz

the lancôme rainforest

i'm lying flat on my back, catatonic, after a long drag from archway in the moderate high north of london across westminster bridge, where a pocket edition of the home minister's soul leaps out at me jubilant from the belfry, to somewhere down south where finally, with burning soles of feet and stiff shoulder after the miles-long drag of books i come to lie on a little triangular lawn of some 2 m diameter above the pavement, soon enough there's a crossing, where the cougar eyes of the floodlights ever taking possession of new measure come orbiting past, and I am well, victory is mine, the belly flat and dull, one black the more. a sudden faint crawling as of mice in the guts, and the image of a tracker light contracts concentrically from a circular rim of diaphragm to the navel, and outwards again. i know who it is, it's dirac, the luminous physicist and author of the book "principles of quantum mechanics", in which i'd read without much result in last times palpably repelled at this room of infinite dimensions, this spooky world chained to its doppelgaenger the dual form and dunked in this gas, this atmosphere of a hypertrophied rationality with its milk-eyed transforms and panacea machinery, with its refreshingly bitter juice extractions and dead-accurate renunciations, its serviceable invariants and photon gases, which now synthesized by my stomach's salivary gland pushed through to the inner sanctum of revaluation, where the basalt in my navel aped a proud hope, and this scampering, this trencherman wigout of the rats in the entrails of my habit alarmed me that all would soon be lost. with that the swarming re-energised, pulsed in bandwidths of oscillatory polarized light, intensifying sans fin, so that if memory/hope serves, a sea of light, vaulted, stood up in my belly, and caused me to fear, for i knew this thing's from dirac, neurone photosis, sounds rather like him, got his whiff, that is to say none.