Sunday 14 June 2009
Saturday 13 June 2009
The Twins
The twins don’t move, they just flicker. A slideshow of handsome portraits, fanart, manga style. They switch positions in the darkness, being the sort of people who can sprawl and pose at the same time. They’re back to back or lounging against eachother, touching eachother. Almost moving into eachother, merging.
Twin boys. Young men.
Wearing identical, tailored suits like second skins. Straight noses, narrow faces, cruel lips. Smiling. They way they smile it’s like they always make things move their way. No problem. Mirrored lives that flow without a hitch.
I’m suddenly aware that I’m approaching them and not the other way around. I walk and they recline, smiling, smiling.
It’s as if they’ve always been this way. Sharp haircuts, effortless appeal. They haven’t spoken yet, but I already know their voices. I can hear the tones and notes of their words in the back of my mind, chiming like bells.
Feeling short and plain, I sit down in front of them and make eye contact. I do not smile back.
“So,” I say, “what is it you want to tell me?”
Twin boys. Young men.
Wearing identical, tailored suits like second skins. Straight noses, narrow faces, cruel lips. Smiling. They way they smile it’s like they always make things move their way. No problem. Mirrored lives that flow without a hitch.
I’m suddenly aware that I’m approaching them and not the other way around. I walk and they recline, smiling, smiling.
It’s as if they’ve always been this way. Sharp haircuts, effortless appeal. They haven’t spoken yet, but I already know their voices. I can hear the tones and notes of their words in the back of my mind, chiming like bells.
Feeling short and plain, I sit down in front of them and make eye contact. I do not smile back.
“So,” I say, “what is it you want to tell me?”
Friday 12 June 2009
A Biography of Claude Monet
Join Monet’s revolution. Become a painter of flowers.
Mostly bearded irises extend and smile, more than shadow, their tops sunlit.
Monet died in 1926. Distillation of light come to fruition.
Today the shadows are the colour of coffin wood.
Blooms about to dissolve, changed into something far more mysterious.
Like a cobwebbing shroud on her face. The fragrant playfulness of my
lilies
Overlapping and bursting out into the surrounding atmosphere.
Pools of indigo shadow gathered, darker and more dense.
Today the shadows are the colour of wet, blonde hair.
Delicate pastal colours that invoke evanescent lighting effects.
Green, slender tendrils. The pollen filled haze of light.
Today the shadows are the creases in red velvet.
The time of day in the substance of shadow, already high above the clouds.
Give flavour to my life, insubstantial, luminous from within.
The dark, dilated pupils in the strange, uncanny light.
Join the impressionist solution, the famous shimmer.
Press the heels of your hands against your eyes. Shameless, indulgence, luxury.
Nearly drowning in the persuit of the May sunrise.
Shadowed and misunder-stood, turned under the willow tree.
Nothing but the warm air taking leave of the sky.
Mist weeps into purple, suggests pinpricks of shadow.
Luminous cloud of changing light, tempted with mirrors.
Threw long shadows onto blue-grey ghosts of Camille.
Monet was born in 1840. Paint what I remember.
Today the shadows are the colour of bruised eyes.
Fifth journey, heavy purple in the autumn.
Abundent irises of all varieties along the edges of the pond.
It is clear and reflective, resplendent as floods of gold.
Today the shadows are rain on stained glass.
Thin form wavering. You can almost hear the birdsong.
The air is filled with so many rapid, licking brush strokes.
Two hundred year old sweet peas shine with a mauve tint.
Maximum vibrancy and zero dilution makes the picture live.
Mostly bearded irises extend and smile, more than shadow, their tops sunlit.
Monet died in 1926. Distillation of light come to fruition.
Today the shadows are the colour of coffin wood.
Blooms about to dissolve, changed into something far more mysterious.
Like a cobwebbing shroud on her face. The fragrant playfulness of my
lilies
Overlapping and bursting out into the surrounding atmosphere.
Pools of indigo shadow gathered, darker and more dense.
Today the shadows are the colour of wet, blonde hair.
Delicate pastal colours that invoke evanescent lighting effects.
Green, slender tendrils. The pollen filled haze of light.
Today the shadows are the creases in red velvet.
The time of day in the substance of shadow, already high above the clouds.
Give flavour to my life, insubstantial, luminous from within.
The dark, dilated pupils in the strange, uncanny light.
Join the impressionist solution, the famous shimmer.
Press the heels of your hands against your eyes. Shameless, indulgence, luxury.
Nearly drowning in the persuit of the May sunrise.
Shadowed and misunder-stood, turned under the willow tree.
Nothing but the warm air taking leave of the sky.
Mist weeps into purple, suggests pinpricks of shadow.
Luminous cloud of changing light, tempted with mirrors.
Threw long shadows onto blue-grey ghosts of Camille.
Monet was born in 1840. Paint what I remember.
Today the shadows are the colour of bruised eyes.
Fifth journey, heavy purple in the autumn.
Abundent irises of all varieties along the edges of the pond.
It is clear and reflective, resplendent as floods of gold.
Today the shadows are rain on stained glass.
Thin form wavering. You can almost hear the birdsong.
The air is filled with so many rapid, licking brush strokes.
Two hundred year old sweet peas shine with a mauve tint.
Maximum vibrancy and zero dilution makes the picture live.
Thursday 11 June 2009
Wednesday 10 June 2009
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