From A Dark Samadhi
In the long shadows cast by the old abattoir walls I
could see a scraggy figure dancing in small circles.
Having transcended Beauty and Art, Stanley Blade
hung up his barristers fop hat, slung his umbrella
into the hall stand for the trillionth time, pulled out
a shotgun and blew his face off.
Meanwhile across town an old park bum who
cliché cliché was a ballet dancer once.
Devil in the details
Deconstructed and rearranged to suit the current argument.
The well thumbed manual on the techniques of caressing
[ideal medicine for the amateur] also pointed out that The
System is in the minds of your fellow man. And unless you
are prepared to crush the skulls of countless millions, then
you must learn to fare the best you can. That's truth, well,
as close as you can get in this world of image and similitude.
Knowledge of horrors
The birds call like women being raped. And I am not sure
that Virtue was ever present, so I may not be speaking of
her demise. It was like a cartoon of the tragedy, a series
of satirical executions.
The shape of lips worn into the hand of the idol at the gates.
No sooner I move, my footprints fill with silt.
Discontent the householder left his fathers apartment.
The door behind him closes with a liquid click like something
parting its lips in the darkness, and then laughing. And they
told him that the city swarms at night, and you, tossing your
hair in that familiar gesture of defiance let the keys slip from
your fingers into the abyss below.
You are down there now, searching for them.