Saturday, October 08, 2005
Haunting
(Part I)
"We are always watched, always haunted and hunted by the ghosts,
of yesterday and tomorrow.."
Driftwood Park. A broken landscape littered with the random pieces of dessicated wood, the branches tilting and the bark chafed. It is a glass-cracked potrait of reticent shadows from the past and of disjointed white-washed memories; of recollection fragmented and ran ashore and of the burdens that yesterday and tomorrow bring.
They drift in a painful preternatural vividness, as the scattered remains of lacerated souls incarcerated by the blight of time, in the distant howl of unfinished laments and in the stiffled cries of sun-dried skeletons burried deeper than six feet. Yet, they take a faster route of return. The bare hand erupt from the earth, naked and fed by maggots. Their bodies might have disintegrated, but their pain has not. So they drift.
The playground seem lighted in the desperate conflagration of reality and the slides are overrunned by crawling vines. The stubborn swings are tipped left, some right- its ropes ever on the verge of crumble and the tension only the expedient. The tired fabrics of the pavillion seem so ready to collapse into an ever-widening hole inundated with a stygian nothingness. The crown first, then its arms- it will melt into the ground. And it will eat anyone talking careless shelter as it falls into the tricky recesses of Driftwood Park, concealed in a noisome odour.
Herein, fear debouched from the slippery abyss of yesteryears supplants hope, blinds the light at the end of the tunnel. A white towel flips wildly in the sky and it hangs perpetually like an eye fixed into the socket of burnt clouds which shifting velvet then tangerine, finally fades into bitter charcoal.
cuRRent...jer ¶ 11:09 pm
(Part I)
"We are always watched, always haunted and hunted by the ghosts,
of yesterday and tomorrow.."
Driftwood Park. A broken landscape littered with the random pieces of dessicated wood, the branches tilting and the bark chafed. It is a glass-cracked potrait of reticent shadows from the past and of disjointed white-washed memories; of recollection fragmented and ran ashore and of the burdens that yesterday and tomorrow bring.
They drift in a painful preternatural vividness, as the scattered remains of lacerated souls incarcerated by the blight of time, in the distant howl of unfinished laments and in the stiffled cries of sun-dried skeletons burried deeper than six feet. Yet, they take a faster route of return. The bare hand erupt from the earth, naked and fed by maggots. Their bodies might have disintegrated, but their pain has not. So they drift.
The playground seem lighted in the desperate conflagration of reality and the slides are overrunned by crawling vines. The stubborn swings are tipped left, some right- its ropes ever on the verge of crumble and the tension only the expedient. The tired fabrics of the pavillion seem so ready to collapse into an ever-widening hole inundated with a stygian nothingness. The crown first, then its arms- it will melt into the ground. And it will eat anyone talking careless shelter as it falls into the tricky recesses of Driftwood Park, concealed in a noisome odour.
Herein, fear debouched from the slippery abyss of yesteryears supplants hope, blinds the light at the end of the tunnel. A white towel flips wildly in the sky and it hangs perpetually like an eye fixed into the socket of burnt clouds which shifting velvet then tangerine, finally fades into bitter charcoal.
cuRRent...jer ¶ 11:09 pm
