Wednesday, October 26, 2011


She strikes a chord
a transitional B minor
and the floor folds
and her sound braids itself into a rope ladder
that doesn't go up
but slithers across the Antarctic Desert
and melts centuries into the sea

and then the sea begins to swell and the wavelengths begin to vocalise
and her mouth opens low to high
her pitch clears the vault
and fleets of finches band the sky

The sky blots over spilt paint
tamed prussian blues
breakwater into low res cobalts
the trembling audio has something to do with her paint brush
she blends the natural disaster with ease
and makes comrades with Pieter Bruegel
only she can do that without a time machine
"The Fall of the Rebel Angels".

The pencil slides off her desk
and the sound of lead hitting the floor
insists she retrieve her sharpener
and sharpen he blade of war
with a close eye to the paper
her dry eyes don't splinter
she masters what she sees.

For she is a looker.

like the skinned rabbit hanging at the front door  weighs the bells of sacrifice clattering down the
hallways of he said she said buckling the boots of disbelief all is fair in love and waaaaaaaar
chattering teeth from the skull, only a light beaming out of its eyes can guide the way,
skull on a stick woodswoman skull on a stick woodswoman skull on a stick woodswoman
please guide the way, after you madwoman you look lovely tonight been round these parts before?
train track Jack, one tooth less, less is more, blue eyed banjo man what are you doing here, there are
no folk here to applaud you, to awe you, to stroke you, to coax you to happily help you. Move along
busker man its only the woman with a fox around her neck and a gun in her hand, guide the way
woodswoman guide the way woodswoman theres no time to be lonely when you have to worry
about bears busts tigers tusks snakes escapes spiders and misers fast cars stolen cars cities with banks
and jails and history. Noise in the light noise in the darkness there is nothing lonely about life, fusica pink
crimson red leopard yellow lake water green neurotic white stumbling over what never could be,
you wouldn't be the lover you're not the lover, where is the messenger, where is the gun, where is
the woman with the skull on the stick...der Himmel und der Boden der Himmel und der Boden
der Himmel und der Boden der Himmel und der Boden will keep us safe will keep us all at bay,
we too are like the skinned rabbit waiting for its next meaning.
Within the confinements of space he sits facing the corner with his back to what is
he wants to sit there
like that
he wants to sit with his back to the frame smoking a cigarette
nimble youth foreshadowing his stand as man, his rally

midnight brown hair
waving like a gesture
white t-shirt
slouched in raw denim
foot taping eagerly in black converse on the hardwood of the third floor
one leg crossed over the other

as he leans in to smell the transcendental arrangement of flowers

" I am the embodiment of youth"

he confirms with ease

and then returns

to his seat.