vendredi, mai 19, 2006

A.D. Concrete

Yes, there were fallen blossoms by the kerb, but when walked through they became whipping little twisters of unheard, disqualified words; a whirlwind of petals. A presence in the empty attic bedroom reasons that it is no longer empty. This presence riots at the opera, it demonises the private to an audience of deaf-mute swans who listen with their eyes. In the street below manx cats prowl for restaurant rats while a lone young man cuts at the overgrown tendrils strangling his window. The loft has become pregnant with triplets of ideas.