As a turn of narrative, it drifted overhead like the worried summertime cloudships of a misspent rural youth in ghettos of bracken and brambles. The resonances are felt to this day; aren't all our summers now shaded by those oldneweverlasting redwood dreams?
Let those thingers feel out the hidden recesses and holy places we spoke of in whisper that once. The heavy solar energy runs latent and energising over us. Can I bear the awesome lightness of your lashes refracted into rainbows by the sun? And there's the warm space between your cheek and mine, where new ventures and old motives are played out in delicious slow-motion heat-haze replay for kicks; a great long-lost protagonist-antagonist nerve ending symphony of touch.
xxx.
Friday 20 March 2009
Thursday 5 March 2009
9. Isn't She Pretty?
What resistance may the greying officers offer? To catch me, you'll have to see me first - I'm that blur that just passed you in the street in third-hand rags of impossible colour. I'm CCTV-see-through and I can't be pinned down at all. An untriangulable FM broadcaster. A surveilled-transparent blind-spot lingerer.
Have you explored this town's alleyways in the alivedead dark before dawn? Pay special attention to your pathway's acoustics, to the rectilinear playgrounds left deserted by scaffolders, to the humming elephant-machines kept (unprotesting but melancholic) in pens to serve man's needs, to the tiny scribbled nonsensical ravings of lonely men and women found between the cracks of the tiles in a freshly painted subway under an abandoned roundabout which lends silently sliding inertia to the nearby architecture. These things might be important.
A dance in the park before home as the world wakes up.
As I undress myself for bed, I feel like a music-box ballerina at the end of her twirl. There's sprites at play in everything, you know, if you look the right way.
Have you explored this town's alleyways in the alivedead dark before dawn? Pay special attention to your pathway's acoustics, to the rectilinear playgrounds left deserted by scaffolders, to the humming elephant-machines kept (unprotesting but melancholic) in pens to serve man's needs, to the tiny scribbled nonsensical ravings of lonely men and women found between the cracks of the tiles in a freshly painted subway under an abandoned roundabout which lends silently sliding inertia to the nearby architecture. These things might be important.
A dance in the park before home as the world wakes up.
As I undress myself for bed, I feel like a music-box ballerina at the end of her twirl. There's sprites at play in everything, you know, if you look the right way.
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