Monthly Archives: October 2012

A New Sky

New things destroy old, new

peoples push past, herd those

unkilled into corners, behind

mountains or walls where they live in

marginal lands, praying they remain

marginal.

 

As on Earth, so in Heaven: the

stars swept from Sumer, Babylon, Attica,

Rome, the Arab Lands, cower in the

ultimate margin, waiting for the

assault of us modern folk on their

last shred of dignity, when

 

The Plough will be beaten into The

Shopping Trolley; Orion retrained as The

Security Guard, his billy-club swinging

uselessly on his over-laden belt;

Cancer multiplied into The Crabs,

infesting poor Virgo, now just

The MILF, while nearby The

Tom who was Leo scratches for fleas.

 

Carthago delenda est, and all things

must pass but I hope that somewhere

out beyond The Water Feature, under the

Big W (no doubt TM), and

buried in the great blastoma of the

Milky Way, a small star clutches its

angular, unpronounceable Arabic name in its

fiery heart.

Fall Fell

 

Fall fell through the

crack in the floorboards, and we

tore them up, desperate to

stave off Winter.

 

Maybe we could burn them

if we cannot find that

lost shiny coin, our

last memory of Summer?

 

 

Slow-Cooked Sauce

The sauce simmers down to the

essence of flavour: it takes time but the

taste seems to last forever on the tongue as though

each mouthful is a mélange of what

was, is, will be, with a hint of

ought, should, maybe, perhaps a

pinch of unfathomable fantasies, a

smidgeon of need, want, lack, but also

love, care and hope to

stop it having an

aftertaste of regret.

Paintings

I leant against the wall and

watched them come and go, mostly

female and shedding their clothes to

pose for Sir, but sometimes

well-dressed men who

peered at me with what I took for

disdain—well, I was there a long time and it was

peaceful and dull.

 

 

I don’t remember which

particular shop-girl she was,

bought for a few sous to

strip and pose for paintbrush and

prick, but when Sir propped her,

finished, opposite me, I couldn’t help but notice her

whey-faced beauty, her

half-starved innocence—had that

survived the session? Well, pure or

sullied she startled me and

something stirred within the

tightness of my veneer.

 

 

I watched the dust settle slowly on her,

softening her pallor but

sharpening my love, the way He’d

caught her between fear and desire, her hands

undecided whether to cover or

proffer her well-thatched sex or the

apple-bosoms that no longer

need fear gravity, and that

long auburn hair which caressed her

boy’s bottom and begged to be wound round a

calloused male fist.

 

 

Sir didn’t come for a long time, then

rough men threw a

rough sheet over me, and

darkness so profound I ended up finding

colours in it, and pictures, most of them

of her.

 

 

When light startled me, I was in a library

above a fireplace, with nothing but the

spines of books to gaze on and no sound except the

insects eating the books word by word; a gaunt man, a

leaden lady who spoke a language I

didn’t understand; two servants who

fucked violently; the eructations of

explosions with their tiny sifts of dust;

distant cheering; a party with

people in uniform who seemed ecstatic though

not inclined to include me

stuck up in the shadows.

 

 

A long silence: the house seemed

shut up. Sometimes I saw her face in the patterns

dust makes as it floats through light.

 

 

Then a man on a ladder, his face in

my face, speaking my language, “Oui,

c’est lui”, but I didn’t know him, didn’t

want to, but he knew me. How?

 

 

Men brought me down,

hooded me again, the

sickening sense of unseen motion.

 

 

Strange spiral, vertiginous, but with one

outrageous blessing, that she was there and that

for once she was looking me in the eye and she

was happy to see me, I think, I

hope, unlike in those long days in that

dusty studio when all she could look at was her

lost innocence.

The God of Chalk

The God of Chalk has no trumpets, no

splendid armour, no crowns or

diadems, no adornments for the

slender necks of vulnerable women, no

death-masks or funeral chariots, no

well-honed weapons or utile tools, no

graven images, except those

tattooed on his skin like totems,

as they would wash away as soon as carved,

tainting the aquifers with the faint taste of

long-dead creatures.

Palette

 

All day the sky wrestled with the word grey and

wrought endless fugues and variations on that

seemingly sombre theme when the

wind got up and whistled through letting in

setting sun and a shower smearing that

slate palette with a Fauvist fantasy.

Natalie Breuer

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