Genus

By G. J. Violet

The information about the book is anot available as of this time.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Feb 10, 2022
• ISBN: 9781669810841

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Copyright © 2022 by G.J. Violet.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

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Rev. date: 02/08/2022

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Introduction

the waiting never ends and there is a trend to sorrow as there is a trend to living

but one who waits is a mutant. I see so many who walk along the light and terrible streets of the city.

they do not fear, as they would have to understand what there is to fear in the city.

they do not know.

one needs to know in order to fear. but they shall never fear as none have begun at the beginning.

the city waits, the city calls, the waiting never ends, the calling is never stilled. the sparrows came to fetch me. I shall answer but I shall die of it.

the blind city, blindly to my naked need, refused, yet calls forever. the damned-up call of nothingness, assimilated faces assimilate faces. I fear. the city, the city, the city and i.

a deficient step pulls me to her, the city; a deficient mind,

a deficient soul, a deficient... only deficient … the deficiency of the city.

the ragged ends of people stroll the city. they believe there is a man who pulls the strings that protects their minds from thought. it is the only fear they know and they fear I, genus, because my deficient steps tell of their deficiency.

between the city and the island, I live in alternating chapters of sleep and awareness, and between each, I compose the following chapters of sleep and awareness as does the hunter in order to live and someday die..

there are so many hours left ’til daybreak. so many hours left to sit idly by and stare at myself and what I have done. is it what I have done in itself, or the promise of better yet. both I expect.

there have been so many days with so many hours left ’til daybreak, where I have sat and stared at her. never once naked before me, only rustled nakedness in crinkled time. always was she my life yet never was she my life.

all these piercing mid-summer lights of memories dripping from the fingers of my mind in the time of me, have seen me numb, then, with the local anaesthetic of intellection.

the paste of the dream substance which she has become, has left me undernourished and somehow peaceful perhaps by weakness -as she has faded into a state where once she was… pieces of mind dispersed in the lawn of reminiscence.

what I have done has become the proof of her existence in me and has perhaps given me some freedom from her - the child of me is too important to talk about.

as I sit and stare at myself, I realise that my very frailty was my only strength. there does not seem to be anything as strong in man as lucidity and the origin of lucidity is a fragile and extremely delicate mind - let not the foundation of a glass building be made of anything but tempered steel -I see her staring... blindly.

"define me; she had cried. define me