21 Nov 2016

Some Puppets Fly

Can you hear me?
Can you see me?
Sad, because the whine
belongs to some harpy, and
there never was a stranger bird
or a creature so hard to forget.

I am eyes abroad for those
who see all so they can learn little,
and wings for flightless ambition.
As they dictate movement across
these places of yours they'll never understand,
their hands never give away
the presence of their own strings,
suspending wooden forms on stages
too darkened to make out the blood.

Then comes crying out
a ghost-quiet call for an end
to justify means,
and it means: in my world
of shades of grey, static and distortion,
in among geometries I see those marked out,
and the white with which they glow cannot hope
to tell their own truths.

Lock, clearance, weapons free—
still unseen, I transform
a world beneath me. Conveniently,
plumes dissipate along with
errant second thoughts
or pause to question.
Onwards, onwards I glide
over land fertile with tears
sown with graceful arrogance.

The Piece

An empty stage is illuminated. A Man enters stage right. He stops abruptly near centre stage and exits stage right. He then returns stage left and stands for a moment centre stage. Exiting stage left and returning there again with a chair, he sits.

Man    So.

He sighs deeply.

Man    This is not the piece.

Pause.

Man    Well, isn't it? It might just have to be.

He shifts in the chair as if edging towards the audience.

Man    I mean, stories are really just strings, you know? Bits of emotions, ideas, atmospheres, sensation—

He stops himself and begins to sob.

Man    What I think is, every telling is a thread of that story. Each time it's retold, you have a new fragment of the piece, and each piece can be done in all kinds of ways—

He is becoming exasperated, visibly irritated with himself.

Man    No, I don't mean just adaptations and so on. What I mean is that every piece has its own colour, and—what? What colour is this piece? I suppose it doesn't have one, not yet. The theory kind of falls over, then, doesn't it?

A Voice is heard off stage.

Voice  A sort of red.

Man    I'm sorry?

Voice  The colour of the piece. It's a deep, dull red, rusty like dried blood, almost brown.

Man    Pain.

Voice  Real pain. The inability to express something without a name.

Man    Right, a sort of red.

He rises to exit stage left before turning to speak once more.

Man    But this, this is not the piece.

12 Nov 2016

Outwards

Now out of woods that inspired
fear but wouldn't keep you,
where to, new creature?
You're ripe for ruin, suited like your cousins
as bones left buried by this force
you've yet to name.
Where do you go now?
The plain now laid out
is set to swallow you, but
as it happens, you're out for blood.

A Movement

Incomplete and unfulfilled—the pleasant couple—
fall into long shadows late summer casts
daringly, piercing a dew-heavy new world
of still air, escaping warmth.