Welcome to Zimmer-zine
The e-zine for all those who are not dead yet!
| raw material |
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bone was a course medium the scrimshaws of working men jet was purer, a chip from the Kaaba, smoking out vipers of dissension words were the hard stuff, inflexible as God till the revolution forced God to bend forced Caedmon to speak |
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dead hour |
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he woke up shaking inside, filled his nostrils with calming dung-reek till his soul was back on board an owl hooted through the darkness; his guts felt rotten with life's unease; he sang of what endured the words came grave and measured, but they banished terror like a joke he no longer needed to tell |
| opening |
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there was a silence endlessly lapping | round the gilded centre of the world go they said, sing of God, colonize the dumb so I seized the moment, knowing such licence was rare blew into the hushed void where saints held sway on the vulgar felt the echo hang like a growth ring in eternity my own corruption nothing weighed against the purity of that sound
GORDON WARDMAN
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This page last updated: 19th June 2004.