J.H. Prynne - A Gold Ring Called Reluctance lyrics

As you drag your feet or simply being Tired, the ground is suddenly interesting; Not as metaphysic but the grave maybe That area which claims its place like A shoe. The idea of the end is a neat But mostly dull falsity, since the Biologic collapse is violence reversed Like untying a knot And so slowness is Interesting and the dust, in cracks between Boards. The old ones have their senses In the elegant droop they sometimes con- Trive, the knowing falter that makes it All like some trick. Fluff, grit, various Discarded bits & pieces: these are the Genetic patrons of our so-called condition No resolve about places, the latch-key to Our drifting lives, seems relevant without This smallest notion of dust. How to Purge the dismal objection to this, remains A question. Not to be answered, but used As a metabolic regulator: pulse rate, place Rate, dust. If you lie on your back the Literalness of that position is a complete Transfer. Thus I Dream about courage But love chiefly Several friends And one woman Who is the Lady Of wherever we May go The evident shift of pronoun (what I Now mean by "we") is a clear question About place. We eat to live. We afford This; the genetic links are everywhere claimed And you could say speech was the domin- Ating discretion. All discretion is a private Matter, all changes of pace and childhood And as I emerge from feeling some lingering Sense of beginning, that privacy (having All the time some start in view), this is another And perhaps my greatest transfer. The public Is no more than a sign on the outside of the Shopping bag; we are what it entails and We remain its precondition. Even the most Modern shops, if you work at them, will Resolve into streets or thoroughfares; their Potential for transfer has simply been absorbed By trade The confinement of that is no option: The public a**ertion of "value" does not over-run the Channels, seeping into our discretion. Whom We love is a tangled issue, much shared; but At least we are neither of us worth it Though we transfer It into all other Matters; that Discretion is Our one place So that the dead are a necessity to us Keeping our interest from being too much About birth. The end is a carpet on Which we walk: they are our most formal Pursuit and we have our private matters By this allowance I don't refuse the sign In whom I know, because that's not a re- Striction. Who that is concerns The question of who there is, i.e., being In place to the hopes they are met by. The English condition is now so abstract that It sounds like an old record; the hiss and Crackle suborns the music, so that the True literal has very few names. And we Too are remote within this, like the noble Gases since it's not our discretion that Is affected. Sedately torpid, we inquire Into our questions, the "burning issues" That "face us on all sides" The private Recourse that might also reclaim the transfer Is our hesitancy. Whenever we Find our unwillingness a form on which to pause The white pills have no mark on them & The box extols three times daily, before meals But the meals are discretion. We can eat Slowly. We know all about the dead ones Choosing to consider only the approach. Have You had enough? Do have a little more? It's very good but, no, perhaps I won't What dignity we avoid as we Commit ourselves thankfully to these needs How definitely glad am I that greed is An alternative to hunger. The few friends Are the genetic patrons, the Lady is Thankfully no Lady, I don't Owe anyone That a**urance And as the age or condition of this Fact we call place grows daily more remote The literalness thrives unchecked. The Imbalance is frightening; the splintered Naming of wares creates targets for want Like a glandular riot, and thus want Is the most urgent condition (e.g. not Enough credit) I am interested instead in Discretion: what I love and also the spread Of indifferent qualities. Dust, objects of use Broken by wear, by simply slowing too much To be retrieved as agents. Scrap; the old ones The dead who sit daily at the feast. Each Time I hesitate I think of them, loving what I know. The ground on which we pa** Moving our feet, less excited by travel