Sawmill, perceived as an ache…goes, gyrates itself into a choral of self-abandonment: forgotten amongst the ones who did run at the sight of mirage, fair and knowingly. What happened next?
Slow browsing of evening violets on the treed passage where closely signified, however wondering, we shine luster our try.
“I walked down the steps leading into a long dark corridor. Damp walls, where the silence and restlessness of the forbidden but beautiful were underlined by the rhythmic noise of an old boiler (at least I thought it was).”
Inquisitive over what such iron gates placed, squealing intimate, will one sure lapse, bottled moment of heaving insurgence. We purely met, circles between us were gold from anear, bronze from afar. Embedded ore.
To call inlaid of everlasting life as per same old suh-suh-centuries a-ca-ca-cquired in a burst of wet soil and cold seduction, physicists and robes and jaunty hats finally converge in plenary array. Gardens’ opening times: avoid dog walkers and nannies, try to get a good deal on the small boat, bribe if necessary.
“The dilated pupils looked in the dark in search of the door they had seen many times. The padlock opens and its sound is lovers’ renewed vow. And closes behind. All is prepared, time and willpower rest adjourned.”
Late swim defines: fantasizing ropey hemlock water, vague reverberation reaps to trail: modelled on maestro’s furniture, one nudged to skate on, one to isolate as album bleat, dripping from the loggia clumsiness of contralto.
“It is a sunny day on a cold winter morning when we emerge. I cycle home. C.”
Denuded mid-stage of grim sand to fluctuate harp with its own flesh or phrase: swans to loiter registration, here no remission no bother freeing. Less crowd I could pass my gratitude to the director for the superbly arranged piece tonight and drawn protagonists, the city has never witnessed, but then in this heat one tends to confuse acts and intervals.
Grey Sparrow Journal 