A body of work. An oeuvre. A broken fucking egg.
There is nothing this terrible din of earthly colours won't hide.
I've been walking paths.
Cobbled with rotten stems and lit by an ocean of fabled dream like soft blonde heads turning slowly away from a tired sun.
Black is here, impossible and shimmering.
Heat from under leaves: there is magic in me I cannot use.
I’m in that space between
I’m one with weather now I’ve found
Moving like mountains
Meanwhile, the rain has worn away the marble hearth;
The mantle where rose hips used to sit has sagged
Under it: A mustard yellow chair, its acrylic stuffing
Pushing at the seams
Where the weathered vinyl meets
Tarnished, copper, rivets.
I’ve come to rest
Like rainwater trapped in the angles of mountains
My skin pink and blistered
Like a piece of driftwood
Jammed between sandstone boulders
I’m missing entire days
Dropped by the the metallic blue-black talons of the common crow
A cracked magenta mussel shell
On the flat gravel roofs of
Turn-of-the-century, two-storey, walk-ups
Taken hold like tumbleweed
In the turbulent wind
Spread thin on polished ebony gabbro
I’ve collapsed like a stack of oaken barrels
Splintering and bursting at the seams
Where the slats meet
Swollen and bloated from the dank cellar cool
Going back centuries perhaps
Like layers of peeling, parched wallpaper
What have we done?
Even glaciers won’t erase this