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.


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