Sunday, March 28


The bodies, which we hang on to. Like a child’s favourite clothes. Like, people we do not know. Like, ideas which you never meet. You will find all these things, shown to you in neat piles in a ruin, unmarked everywhere, you will lose your sight. You meet friends there, husbands and lovers, sons and grandfathers. They guard the ruin like a woman, which made him.

There, there, now don’t cry. Never use your body. It is which kills, slowly and deliberately. I sink in to more metaphors, and like blood flows along with every other thing in the wicked world. It is a beautiful dream. You sleep there for many stories of years, and getting older clouds look real. And you stay on.

The body mirrors the shadows, all the blood giving red its many shades of colours. The life presence of it all, she says. I am your muse, she says. The body draws conversations, and then makes violent sex upon the sandy beach of time’s little forehead. You will notice similarities, and common faces but it is all a convenient copulating picture, nothing else.

The body stretches in to bits which divide it, and starts deteriorating like a perfectly healthy leaf, quivering and shaking in her mad dance to death. It is all a very normal game. Delicately nocturnal then.

You grow old and die,down down you go. And the true shadows never meet.

Hang back. Hang back.