train – burlap – fiction – pearls – vertigo
Circular wandering
Paul Klee drew and painted on burlap,
Weird train of thoughts…
You, wearing you necklace of pearls at the exclusion
Of anything else…
Fiction I’d love to expand on,
But daring leads to… Vertigo… Mr Vertigo?
Paul Auster: Invisible
Paul Klee: Make Visible ~
Must visit the Bauhaus!
Out of the mist they march
Cloaked in white, invisible,
An army of wraiths, frightening the crows,
Away from the living, they march towards Hell
On their way destroying all evils…
Image: Mieczysław Jakimowicz, Foreboding, 1907, via http://snowce.tumblr.com/
Was it luck? Was it the hand of destiny?
The rocks had fallen, in a shower of dust, mud, broken trees and the sound of an angry Earth.
The big menhir had stood still, protecting him.
As he slowly rose, he saw the god behind the stone: Gratitude – one day he would have to be that stone for someone…
Long Summer evenings
In the City of our love, tree-lined streets
Girls on black bicycles,
No fear: notes on posts
Voluptuous lips
Silken Thighs ~
Ecstasy without end:
Forever
Image: Chemise de Nuit, by Mina 1983
Space ants, no light, no atmosphere, ersatz of everything, no longer human, dogs of war… In his sleep he remembers…
In the immensity of space, in the cruiser armed to the core, he remembers: a clear stream flowing from high above in the icy air of an alpine Spring, snow still powdering the valleys, and her smile, her lips in the thrall of happiness.
He remembers the glory of the shore in the Summer: the waves licking the golden sand, her body, tanned, naked, the beauty of Aphrodite.
He remembers the colours of Fall, the sweet scent of burning wood, the horses in the fields showing off their winter coat…
He remembers the dead of Winter, when he, with thousands of others like him, embarked on the spaceships launched to stop the Enemy… The long lines of volunteers, the rockets.
He remembers the war, the horror of war.
It is over now: they have triumphed. One out of one thousand is coming back. To Earth, to the Light, to the Seasons, to their long gone Loves.
For Earth is rotating, and Sol is burning, and they, the survivors, are now old men.
Image: courtesy The Classy Polaroid
Thin wrists, smile of a medieval Virgin,