Brigitte Byrd



(conveniently time came for another rehearsal)


To find a corner of splendor was not always a poetic thrust in her severed beginnings. She called upon his flowing mouth and there was always a chance for decay. He saw her as a chest full of classical climaxes and was it not a commodity. Like shipwrecks of obedience like elevators of eloquence like polemics of convenience. She looked for glowing desire and stumbled on didactic illusions. The earth is very tight today, can it be I have put on flesh. She shot herself with confusion. There was an edge to her decorated fear. How was he to hug her whirling wants without swaying away from his medicated core. He thought eternal return. He thought mathematical trouble. He thought irrecoverable combination. He chose complacency. She read Did you not hear me screaming for you? There. No omnivorous communication with the old style. He fed on persistent waffles and eggs. She fed on his breath. Until. She crawled over his punctuated past. Until. There was a splintered shadow on her ceiling and she knew. He had turned. She held her bleeding mind like a dream and shouted floral nonsense. Turned. Back to a green wall he missed her wounded lips. O inessential environment, litter the cathexis of my gyrating interior. He gave her a recording of his voice and she was too busy to live happily ever after.




(the attraction overturned the resemblance)


After breaking from autobiographical writing the direction pointed to the same passage. There was no moonlit personality no illustrated retrospective no whimsical obsession on this April day. She moved onto a Cubist chapter when he reorganized his landscape with Chinese whispers. She said There is the trace of a morphing allegory in your birth date. He said My notebook does not exude exactitude. Was this a swarming sequence to. Though a voice signal often leads to dramatization she took a picture of her dog. There was no movie to watch. There was immediacy. There. Like structural pathos like leaking fantasy like narrowing hours in the hollow of his room. A full-scale flying tale made her head spin and he grounded her words in his chest. He said if you are to paste more images to the story there is always the aquarium. She thought golden sardine and said C’est vraiment trop atroce la vie de poisson de banc! He thought the heart is a lonely hunter and did not say anything. There was nothing on the drafting table when they hung up the phone.





(she was often crippled by a drumbeat in the aisle)


The answer was then a sprawling explosion of music since there is nothing like a jump back into the thirties to fill the page with words dancing a continental dance and she did not know the steps. He said I tried the Sheik of Araby and it was hard. She said I remember him and he was not that old. There was confusion in the translation of their sentences. They found a persuasive moment on the other side of a scream. It was not a world première it was about everything that crossed her mind. Like a romantically inclined headless queen like a lyrical philosopher in a stormy suit like a jealous dog biting into an exuberant ensemble. The thread of this century is made of wire. And still. The change of scenery hit her like steady drumming and she could not write anymore.





(when it came to interpretations)


The poem returned again and again with the same guitar and the same violin. Just how empty was her soundtrack was not a careful description of her artistic aims. There was always an illuminating fusion between the familiar and the dramatic and at this precise moment it was Reinhardt and Grapelli’s ultrafox. She did not fear the loquacity of their rhythm. She was removed from the damage of the masculine world. She agreed on the premise of a dream. One day he was strumming on his guitar, and I started to improvise with him. From this point he was drawn to continuity in cosmic foreboding. Just as the Southern sun transformed him into magnetic irrationality he saw her as Ganesh and it was difficult to embrace the notion of the first sound when she often looked for the first word. She said We had enough coffee today and it was a sign of her wisdom and intellect. As a result she insisted on expounding the classical concept of the means of escape and stepped out.