MirrorMotionless, the poolhas trapped the vault of heaven,spread before my feet.
ElevatedThey share their own world,perched above the restless crowds.Their search is over.
Masked, update.A brooding spiritdreaming deeply through ages,lost in trance-bound sleep.
WatersideCompletely absorbed.The solitude they're sharingmight contain all of their lives.Neither can believethat a moment like this canever have occurred before.
TouchingKiss his shaven head,tenderly. Your lips will feelhis soft, fragile skull. Bones too easily broken,brittle as the shell of a snail.
BenightedI was born in the house of death,I fought for my existence as my mother died. The midwife rescued me. She claimed me as salvage from the wreck.I struggled to breathe the impoverished air, desperate to survive. Spectral beings gathered round my cradle as I slept.She who tended me, who helped me live, kept all their toxic curses at bay.Though I hardly thrived, I did adapt to the bitter milk extracted from her shrivelled breast. My innocenceprotected me. The scorpion's sting,the incurable bite of fate, was wrappedin an implacable future. The seedsof destiny began to germinate.I was born of the devil's spawn,she
Was She Just Seventeen?"Elastic", said she, "forgivesall our offences readily.Elastic-sided morality's got the stretchthat lets it encompass every contingency."Her elastic sided bootsconverged in sharply pointed toes.Her stylish skirts were parodies of redundant notions of modesty.Her hair, though, was overdressed,many anticipated the fall that her liberal use of moussemiraculously prevented.When he saw her standing there,he came over strange. Suddenlyhe had his whole life to re-arrange.
FullNothing but the voidhas space enough to contain multiplicity.
SomnolentBewitched beauty sleeps.In her deep slumber she waitsfor his claiming kiss.
World's End, RevisitedIs this how it will be? Will there be anything to see?I persist in witless questionings, posing all thoseconundrums that never have ceased to disturbsuch fragile tranquillity as humankind might attain. Witless because unanswerable, thereforevoid, unintelligible. But not, on that account,inconsiderable. On this day though, I have set my solitude like a sail,as if I were a vessel that could run before the brisk winds that arethe currents of time.Alone on the shore.Before me, the molten fusionof sun, sky and sea.
PolishedMarble the palaces great men builtby the shores of inland seas.Many the graceful statues that stood,emblems and sentinels, wrapped in timeless, vanished vivacity.The lissom warmth of youthful fleshcooled and petrified. Anonymous, perfected artistrycreated from flawless blocks of rarest stone.Whose are the fingertips stroking absentlythe disembodied coolness of a polished thigh?
Coming OutThe show's over now.The houselights rupture our darkcocoon; strangers surround us.Outside, the long daynever stopped. We blink, our eyessightless in afternoon's light.
RemembranceWill candles dispelthe ever-deepening shadesof forgetfulness?
EgoProne rapidly toswell, when heady cosmic insightsare inhaled too soon!
ModelShe's confined withinthe tall frame. The picture's narrow space is almost completely filledwith her lissom nakedness. She standson a wooden dais. Her hands areraised above her head,as she reaches to adjust hersimple coiffure. Behind her,lower in the frame, the sculptorintently meditates upon her form.Has the artfully worked stonebeen magically reborn, restoredagain to yielding flesh, or is what we seethe opposite transformationbeginning, when cruel artpreserves appearance beyond the dissolution of living flesh?
Dockland, Hard LabourEarly morning chill:dense fog stained by the effluvia of thousands of smoky hearthsconstricts vulnerable lungs. Always threatening to overwhelm.The silent crowd, bodies sapped by poverty's diet wait for another stale day of labourThus the ritual of every day, against the
GrievingThe night can blossom,shadows become dark flowers,soft petalled velvet.Flowers seen by sleepless eyes,when hearts feel only turmoil.
The FirestormFirestorm they're calling it.Hour after hour, the sky groaned with the noise of engines, buckled with the weight of death.Yesterday an ancient city, streets of historic buildings; with this morning's light, devastation. Nothing but cindered corpses, scorched earth, slowly cooling rubble.Soldiers search for survivors and miracles.Once the gods alonecould achieve such destruction.The pygmies have grown.
SpeechlessWhat happens when some one too close to you dies?When in the shaded room, the high tide of pain abates, when the room is filled with final silence, when organic motion at last has ceased. The familiar face becomes a mask, no longer illuminated from within. You hold a hand mirror before the transfigured face. The reflection remains clear, unfilmed. The breath of life is no more. Solitude blossoms around you (like those chaste lilies that will decorate the funereal church).Neither staying or going will alter the implacable truth.you can speak onlyin regret's sad dialect,sighing your losses.
CollectionRows of dappled eggs, their futures blown, collectingemptiness, mere shells.Possibilities of songexpelled along with the yolk.
VisionaryInfinite wondersbeheld by the finite eye,just for a moment.
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