Claypole, Lincolnshire, England
waiting for just that deep moment
one by measured one
architectured cities change
tough winds sweep through
Walk further North. Walk diagonally across Market Square. Walk under striped covers of flimsy windblown market stalls. Walk from this town to that from one shopping Mall arcade to another another another.
speed washes sunlight
mix of vaporous events
rich in soft contrasts
Clouds fill with sea whispers. Hungry seagulls mix with aromas of freesias smell of crunched fish batter oil soaked chips that filter through tastes of what will never become.
static heart poses
headless scream of chickens
runs death into life
"Do not die. Not . . . not before . . . you know what happens"
Walk on. Walk further North. Walk into a specious space. It is no more than an emergency cube that explodes into atomic components becoming a palace of sorts in which edges corners flower vases beds are formidable barriers against outside brightness. Open chests of drawers are filled not with clothes but a clutch of red faced screaming babies their eyes scrunched lips vibrating hair matted in sweat.
just a coldest hint
of bright lights to come
Pushing towards us is a vast image of a harsh North season. A total sky is filled with such deep emptiness that flat darkness is impenetrable. Coal seam blackness covers soot dust. Inside such blindness so intense is an indecipherable bleakness. Yet somewhere tactile velvet remains to tangle with feeling.
heavy noises scratch
into her screams
She cries out blistering sounds that thicken on impact. Smells sabotage deep into pregnant holes. Broken darkness is dragged deep deep deepest down way beyond poignant.
new rose an insufficient