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To all the magnetic terrestrial juices worming around midnight like rampant weeds at the back and in front of Blake’s humid House
Not to mention those foggy attractions felt by the blue skies we thought knew best
Stevie Wayne is the mother of one
She didn’t father the mist, nor fondled or caressed the boy’s mizzling mystery, drifting both ways out of the woods, she fostered the rocks of the bay which has no docks to this day, foresaw the tipping point of their cardinal sin
Virginia Woolf, who gathered no more kids between the hidden clocks of her mind, and collected there the big stones of a biological suicide, is a ghost visitor of choice
To her lighthouse and back, feeding its ominous breast with the rest of her lights, she pockets the souvenirs of her lost tomorrows
Draws on idle circles at the surface with the small milky monoliths she flings into the ocean
The Spanish kings never found the right passage, the fine entrance to it, though the key be left in the door
The internet in a latent state for the lime being, 1980 was a great time for radio waves to breed in full liberty
The voices were crackling, squeaking, even weather logs used to crepitate when read loud and clear
It was quite complicated for humans to meet in the flesh and replumb their moral compass in the infrared
Love was made impossible
It was a lab world of a kind, during daylight and at night, full of tentative plans and aborted experiences, watery ones, mostly, exceptionally searched up and burned down to the bone
The Sea Peoples came and went
The moldy Sherden, the brittle Shekelesh
Soaked to the last crumb, frangible like a sponge in the depths of a profound dream about the sun
Everyone of them minus six, hunted down by Miss Solley, a Coast Miwok herself and a painter by trade from Albuquerque
Father Malone, of decent Irish descent, heard an Arthur Machen voicing over the old song of a young mariner, maybe Bennett imagoed out of that idea, while hammering the nails of sleep upon the city’s roofs, wings in disguise
Maybe the verger is a victim of the catholic priest’s behind-the-scenes insectile friendship:
« Would you like something to keep you warm along the way home?« 
Said the old man of the Church to the goofy odd-job Samaritan of all pranks played by the director himself
‘Ll’uva sudden, live on Robinson Jeffers’s Hawk Tower, wavelengths of a storm from Vancouver to Monterrey are forecast in the heavens and shadows above our heads
Stevie Wayne is the driver of a Volkswagen 181, the orange Nebel-eater German Sedan Kübelwagen of noble officer Ivan Hirst’s memory
A deep but fragile name in the art motor show
She keeps it to herself and calls it The Thing
Damnably Dane damages done, the breath of the hound of the Norwegian Antarctic Thor base is wheezing closer
In a needle’s eye at first, Stevie sees the black chopper coming at us on the Elisabethan stage
This is KAB, Antonio’s Beast, a channel which aims at debunking the spectrum of a Nebelwerfer sebastianism possessed by an electromagnetic glowing arrow
Burrowing its way somewhere under Kafka’s Bau towards our Northern Narrows
‘K’ stands for the radio stations that emit west of the Mississipi’s deceived or derailed missions
In
The Fog’s vestigial digestive tract, almost anal on its global camino real