Synthee (waltzing at your feet)
Synthee (waltzing at your feet)
Do you even miss me?
No.
I want you to be my Sappho, a static with no forehead, a face with a cheek and a neck, to be like the circle of the moon blinded from the sun for me, the orb decaying from the fiercest light it's ever known, saving me from its vicious, accusing stare. Oh merciless shock of colour in a black-and-white world. Oh those bones throwing themselves in the air as the waves waltz and collapse against the shore. Oh holy, holy. Let me bandage you, your half-turned face, your head like a broken shell. Be my relic, be the stench of truth curling up like the smoke of putrefied opium, be the gasp of tested devotion when my head breaks the surface of the water (flying up, up). Counterfeits of branches, thin strings and curled wires suffocating out the life of a leaf. There: in an-other world, that would be the particles of what once was your body rising up oh up air aching rushing to find other selves to blend in with there where the sun is not the distorted crenelated ring behind shut eyelids. Chant me up, master of the light. (Look these deserted swings, see how the sun forms shadows where she doesn't look, know that every-one is dead) And they, my children, I taught them to eat of me, to rise out of me, they love me so. Let this be a trembling snapshot of your silhouette. And then flow me to your feet.
15:03. 15:06. 15:12.
Written for the
Musemuggers challenge 139, thirteen pictures chosen from numbers one up to twenty-five. I finished it off because I don't have time, otherwise I'd have loved to go through all sixty-eight while the inspiration's still here. Will crosspost to the
Musemuggers community later. Crossposted here.