Fake the knowledge. This knowledge. This now tenderly suspended knowledge, in this now tenderly suspended house. It’s too late for sneaking barefoot. Too late to forget. O, for one more tip of the weather. O, for a woman girded with unspoken hymns. A passer-by dips, lifting cats from the wreckage, packing ballrooms with scented briefcases, stashing fairground moles for whackings to come. It’s washday, though, with jump-started schools and clunky political altercations, and now we can barely separate the septuagenarians from the shepherdesses. There are bats in belfries and basilisks in basilicas, while old hailstones snap at snowmen and showmen outside. It’s a fashionable orthodoxy in a vintage suit, a wodge of weak wit, preserving stale passports and paroxysms, tweaking old noses with blunt knives. There, in the alchemist’s jumper: yourself, alone, a long way from well, precarious at the edge of well, well, well. We’re all built of bluster and meaning is so, so close, so nearly palpable, and barely short of authorization – what we might once have called rubber stamping. Remember, we are never alone, and nothing has ever resembled knowledge. Remember, it is what it is what it is. Review the situation. The household has set all its songs a-singing, and we’re dithering between cameras. I am the one who was. You are the boiling knowledge – this boiling knowledge – in a deserted alcove of this falling house.
Oz Hardwick
Picture Nick Victor