Saturday, 24 November 2012

They Were Here I Know They Were

The replication that is not the repetition
of sensuous bodies carries every hotel room out
to sea until the entombment of elevators causing
the loveliest countenance to infold petals. As dark

a red as billowing church spire, the replication
that is not the repetition of sensuous
countenance and now the escalators turning
to waterfalls. In statue I narrowly the shaking

upper storey, a woman in a canoe lights candles
for the living. The bodies dissolve in vision, my eyes
grow dark as painted cinematography. Cartoon
villains chase bewigged judges over Westminster Bridge, demanding

vengeance. We’re going to drown you full fathom five. And then we’ll make
you confess. A stray hair in a The lovers dance apart, solemnly, with
radiant voicelessness stray hair brush. The woman in the canoe drifts
along the river bank. Hush of music. She climbs the windowless

and doorless tower, sets the structure ablaze.
This she says is for all of us, the neither living nor the not dead.
The fire can be seen for miles and therefore cannot be seen at all
other than by spectacular re-representation.

The replicable non-repetitious impossible to replicate bodies
become like someone you recognise from something’s
thoughts. Maybe their own. The sky settles down exhausted, curls
up next to some tiny creatures and together they dream of whatever immortality is not and is.

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