what had become of
‘the good old days’ when the grand
father clock had a
more resonant chime
throughout my childhood and snow
storms could be relied
on with clockwork pre
cision not like nowadays
only in fairy
tales of ‘the good old
days’ when all the fairytales
actually took place
it was not all that
simple with all that
freedom or rather with that
sliver of freedom
humans despite e
verything possess and i am
often tempted to lose my
self in calculat
ing totals and to
talities to lose my way
in ramanujan’s
splendid formulas
tombeau de robert
jacobsen has now taken
‘the old days’ with him
behind the rust and
red lead there where the secret
hexagram has been
welded into the
inside of the iron leaving
us still alive on
ly the chance of read
ing his last signature mir
rored on the steel pane
memory is quite
spiritless since all that is
spirit relates to
itself (otherwise
only to god) while he who
remembers has pre
cisely to relate
to a timespan outside the
moment (point in time)
which is thereby at
a point outside him because
all time is present
the first word ought to
have stood in the last poem
that much i could re
member though not quite
where - whether it was
to take place on the far side
of the fairytale or in
the depths of winter’s
box of varnish and
chinese ink i could
no longer recall and the
rest i’d forgotten
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