charcoal, compressed charcoal, pastel on paper (A1)

Prose

Is it enough?

it starts as the infant who only knew a tiny world
a pocket of air that reached
no further than little arms reach..
before it was launched into world space
to be hungry
to be fed to know and to see everything...
before it fell
exhausted
and turned in on itself agen
to hold its own hand
in a soundless
lightless land
wanting only to block out the excess
excess 2000 something
two thousands of all and none of any
two thousand bombs
two thousand and seven thumb-sized record players
two thousand and seventeen and seven soft porn pop stars

and then ran
like a dog dazed
by traffic
to hide
in places of the past
that spake to a longing for simplicity
and did not understand what was to come..
that hoped for it
feeling the edge of it with excitement

ran inside
to delve with newness
through the ears of a european cine-man
rich with auras of implausible beauty
palpable with a sensuality
sought long nights ago
with those who choked
in bodies spindled as the weed
that warmed their throats
singing their own scene
and on their own movie screen
sipping wine wading
in a pool of timeless mediocrity
as though no-one wanted to work for it

when someone sent shivers
up the spine for the first time
leaving behind the longing
that can never be sated
or bought
like you can buy paint
if only now to hang on the wall
or to play it over and over
to remind us
that we have not gone numb
in this dumb throw it out
run it by you culture
and we have not been rendered
immune to it

_alegria

Cicada Stitching

Down in the Bunker