I watched neon light explode. It meant nothing as the shots rang out, drilling holes in the walls. Letting in the starlight pinprick void.
It traced your body.
Long departed, but I saw you chasing down the shadows as I moved from room to room in search. What lies behind number 47?
Sunday 18 April 2010
When we are sick ...
When we are sick we lie becalmed, eyes dull and loose-limbed. And the stillness penetrates our soul, like stars stuck deep in the coaled sky. Just a universe away.
We wait. For time to rise, for times we crawled across floors to seek out new pleasures. Spinning tops and the rich tapestry carpet beneath our young flesh.
Little Lamper, I was once as you. Eyes bright and crawling. I can hear the hum still of my spinning top, a train racing round in endless circles. I set off once on a journey to find it, hidden a million miles across the snake-traced carpet.
I'm still searching, Little Lamper. May I crawl a while with you?
We wait. For time to rise, for times we crawled across floors to seek out new pleasures. Spinning tops and the rich tapestry carpet beneath our young flesh.
Little Lamper, I was once as you. Eyes bright and crawling. I can hear the hum still of my spinning top, a train racing round in endless circles. I set off once on a journey to find it, hidden a million miles across the snake-traced carpet.
I'm still searching, Little Lamper. May I crawl a while with you?
Services
Beneath some low-scudding skies, two services.
Service One
Easter, a packed Church and raised hands. An entrance in cries of jubilation greets the fast strummed strings of new life. A people in light.
We stand unwelcomed at the back, in the midst of chattering girls and a myriad trilling conversations. We stand, the seats hand-bagged before us. Is this the reality of Easter welcome?
Service Two
A feast of songs.
This Church is old and creaking, but yet. A twinkling of eyes, and a church chanting Alleluiah. I watch a face that has danced in light. Hair greyed and thinned, it frames crevassed lines. But her face has loved. And danced. The reality of Easter.
Here.
Service One
Easter, a packed Church and raised hands. An entrance in cries of jubilation greets the fast strummed strings of new life. A people in light.
We stand unwelcomed at the back, in the midst of chattering girls and a myriad trilling conversations. We stand, the seats hand-bagged before us. Is this the reality of Easter welcome?
Service Two
A feast of songs.
This Church is old and creaking, but yet. A twinkling of eyes, and a church chanting Alleluiah. I watch a face that has danced in light. Hair greyed and thinned, it frames crevassed lines. But her face has loved. And danced. The reality of Easter.
Here.
Wednesday 24 March 2010
Between the Generations
Bright eyes twinkling in the light, so rich a harvest of new sensation. The first tentative steps, reaching out across a tightrope toward fresh pleasure. And then the pull of gravity as knees buckle beneath. A fall from grace.
Dull eyes dimmed in rheum, a sleepy hand lifted. White haired and frail, to disappear softly into the night. The last tentative steps, framed in slow-motion as she moves to eat. And then peace descends in the pink flowered walls that hold her safe once more. Still, a hand of grace.
Dull eyes dimmed in rheum, a sleepy hand lifted. White haired and frail, to disappear softly into the night. The last tentative steps, framed in slow-motion as she moves to eat. And then peace descends in the pink flowered walls that hold her safe once more. Still, a hand of grace.
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