Monday, 6 April 2015
Saturday, 4 April 2015
Thursday, 2 April 2015
by Clare Bedford
Inspired By the Illustration by Moley Talhaoui.
A page on which to draw,
like a mind to whom is new.
With creamy baby paper skin,
that desires lines, that float instead of chew.
That could chew,
the delicate weave of its body.
A nobody, a somebody, a hand.
A hand that made its mark with pulsing white noise,
in a room, a space, a moment, simply poised.
And very, very still.
Still like a stone cluster of matter, the monument affront of an important place,
A body that had to muster into this blinding perpetual space.
In a space he stands like a darkness, that is a thousand times darker and abstruse than darkness itself.
The kind of tenebrosity that no soul can venture, without a skull of another, abroad with the end himself.
His ticket to dark.
Dark, blackened depths with a bullet hole through a bloodless being.
Darker, the further you walk into the closet and close the door behind you.
Darkness, here where he stands, not to be seen.
Standing unseen as a compressed organism, found in the farthest crevice of the white abyss,
In a quandary.
And simply and most certainly among ten thousand-million or more stars.
In an almost contrary...
...these were no ordinary balls of black fire, they were embroideries of this mans patterned quilt of life,
each dot a reminder of the days gone by and the light-years that remain of his leftover fight.
The holes along the thin body of tangled emotions, were sewn by Astraeus as he woke,
wrapped from ankles to shoulders, an invisible irrevocable twine, held together his mortal cloak.
Each delicate thread was older than its neighbor, by many a lunatic time,
a precious garment, made by a Titan God, in tune with this souls rhyme.
The hymn, a song so rigid, like a sleeping bag of perplexity, immovable, moribund and still,
the snug fit of the fabric, that intwined the bones, left a stench of a vultures found kill.
The sound of a cry of homelessness, hopeless sweating and moping senselessness,
The eternal question written, with delicate fine lines upon his senses.
The question, ah the question.
Locked in histories closet, deep behind those round cavities.
A swarthy complexion from nape to knee.
His arms twisting like ivy, bound for the light above the Oak tree it lives off,
A ticket gripped tight, no lips or teeth or chin to scream “thats enough”.
Toes like roots from the ground into the rubble.
The broken soil beneath his soles, touching the white abyss,
The veins of his extremities bursting like the foot of the Queras.
Standing, still and calm as a tree would
Standing, textured as if it would scar your skin and bleed quite good.
Textured, asymmetrically contested,
His life quilt embroidered with stars, standing still, dead with his moments festered.