Monday, 22 April 2013

Hand me a mirror.

And rotate me. Am I handed, never handled. Why is the centred petal of my centrifugal gyration, clocked or anti? Show me my silvered, reflected face, manmade.

Infinite and unbounded, sliced in fined relief, too more to comprehend drop my visage to splinter and fail. Janus façade faded hypothermia.

We talked. We talked of things we had and had not scene. We poured our libation in golden goblets and never stilled our swivelling eyes. Fevered in the rank of our enervated memory. Deceased and diseased, the head stones that he told me off.

I stare at the secreted flattened map, velveteen and bare on slate, how many balls in play? Who hands the cue?

Care was my care, I took point, I wasped my ears and fled my eyes, to care, too carriaged way, I pointed out the dead buildings where sloth money cares for nought, I felt the ground, and I smoothed the ripples of skinned approach and warned her of arrival.  Taken care is of no doubt against oncoming traffic.

I wished that we had, as unplanned as the journey was, struck past the most beautiful structure in the world. Where we never slept. In the woodened decided deciduous tarp and volatile skin where I saw the starling drown. I missed my future and we never had the opportunity to breathe the rich, dense, stanging, oliphactory timbered lumber of my peaceful slumber.

We may never return to this beautiful peace of land but I hope you understand its beauty reflected in my obtuse prose.