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Phantasmagoria.
What have I become?
Once, I was I.
Now partitioned into a trillion pieces and bought back together into once place.
Rivulets coursing with synergy, coating my delta hand, a poetry, swallowed in a blink.
Half of myself, disappearing into light air.
Here is the window, but there is no door.
So many lines. So carefully considered. Profoundly put and always out of reach.
These encapsulated spaces, cornered around by a sigh. Infinitely excruciating with so
much meaning, colluding into the meaning of paper. Scarred without pleasure or pain
and without being broken by violence. Just the grey, just the seizure. Inches of effort
written over and over. A function of clothed forks jutting out into invisibility.
Understanding conscripted behind gaudy facades. Surrounded by the reinforcement of
their ideas. Who knew that they'd pray in the streets! Inch by inch, designed to the
core, juxtaposed, overlapped, entwined. Every car door, every stitch of cloth, every
brick. The concentration. The restraint. The focus of thought. The dizziness. A poetry
without beauty. A spiritless spirit for the spirit world.
With so much effort and so little grace.
Just a cacophony, a symphony, an orchestration of Hell denied.
You can't play the violin with dirty fingernails.
Gentrification is annexation. It is said without anger, in a voice that is so gently it
almost breaks into salutation. It has crept across Hackney, it's justification being it's
reputation. Bringing clean lines, confident spaces and bare windows (apparently
consumption is a form of self expression and so must be seen to be appreciated).
Accents breach the air that have not lain in the gutter. New signs sing, old signs are
remade, 'This is here, that is there. This is where you are.' You always have to know,
where you are. Homogenous, resonates. New paths are cut through the aching acre.
And the new lights, so many lights not illuminating. A drained calypso. The light is
haunting. The streets are taunt . Decay promises regeneration. No space is left
unmolested. There is no hypocrisy in the close juxtaposition of lofty apartments and
high rise flats. Trying to be clothed in richness, trying to be clothed in poverty.
Cleanliness becomes decoration, graffiti is left behind.
The road persuades you. The lines pursue you. The effect bears in. Shapes echo
inside. An empty museum.
Old Astronomers carved teeth are still without existing.
I'm cotching on the common, pastoral winds whip across curled fingers, behind my
ears and into breathing. People walk past me, going somewhere else. Across from me,
the Church has to rear. Wherever there is a green, there is a church. All roads led to
Rome, led to here. Rushing suction penetrating.
All roads now lead to the Temple of the Sun. The people walk past me, to somewhere
else.
Fly by night.
Bounded and bare the moulded folds of sand march onwards over the desert, until a
green oasis appears. An oval pinched horizontally. A mirage of calm maudlin
sanctuary. Divided. Chestnut trees hang on these thresholds of sand. And become
windows of torment. After being fitted, understanding and awareness proclaim what I
am in. I am in the desert and I can see through those windows into an oasis.
But, all these things come from the same place, to which they will return. Flesh,
wood, stone, metal. To the Earth. I am I.
And so, the colour washes over everything, from each and every point.
Reaching and stretching into the sky.
By the mind, by the body, by clothes, by the air, by a building, by concrete, by soil, by the sky, by the state, by the atmosphere, by the Earth, by the Universe.
Dor-reh. A hand, with it's fingers. Quickly and repeatedly, opening and closing. The
scalp shrinks. From here it is a discoloured growth, a scab, moving, growing,
expanding. Blood of metal filtering through, condensed and dispersed. Glowing as if
on fire. Smoke heaving out, made from substance born inside.
It looks for all the world, diseased. |
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