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2003-12-10

Iris Murdoch
B. 7.15.19 Dublin / D. 2.8.99 Oxford
Alzheimer’s Disease

Affrighted by the mirror—me, with my fly-away hair the color of ashes and skin for which “sallow” is too kind a word. Scary’s the word!
Alas
Drop me on children in Afghanistan might as well, screaming out of the blue or pitch-black at them—me in a pointy hat, make the Soviets look like Santa’s reindeer.
Alas and Allah
Revivifying the unplugged bogey-monsters on their U-Store Cold War slabs—me, misshapen in a lab coat, one eye baleful and the other on a stalk, quizzical, quizzical:
Uncle? Uncle Sam?
Athens! Rock sizzle dripping olive oil rosemary fat—me, on a spit, turning, turning, still not a cloud in the sky. My breath will stain the tunics of Philosophy.
Baa!
Eustachian tubes impacted with Al Gore’s fallen hair, I'm deaf, stumbling, a monster of vicious circular process, my appetites “Vacuum,” my longings ashes—me
Whoosh.

Consolation Site: Stichomythic. . .perhaps

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