#cameraobscura
I hardly journey there anymore.
Those ruins are far and distant,
Far and distant, and black and grey.
Relics are moon rocks in the frozen landscape.
The grand façade of the pantheon has
Crumbled into sand. I could crush it all into
Dust beneath my heel.
The mind itself is an eye, a camera obscura,
Lit not by the moon—
That old pinged marble—
Over whose surface I skim in my tiny submarine.
The lunar scene fills my vision,
Film noir.
I spy the cold garden. In the heart of it
Gleams the litter of my chicken bones.
My cowardice the wicked reminder,
Consequence of the role I performed
For the impassive audience. I underwent
A sea change in the theatre of their minds.
On some other plane
Holy voyeurs peer through spyglass,
Seeking to undress the celestial paramour.
Such delicious vacancy—
**** statue in an arena of eyes,
Gristle picked clean by vultures.
The air is ****** dry. Cold stars
Abound in the black sky.
Smeared ink the lingering impression,
Smudged thumbprint.
Nov 15, 2019
Nov 15, 2019 at 8:32 PM UTC
( for Virginia Woolf)
Light & dark collide
her life is a palimpsest
of butterfly memories
of twisted ills & happiness
viewed through a pin hole
captured in black & white
The Lighthouse still stands
in St Ives where it always was
where she used to go as a child
she writes “ Mrs Dalloway”
& eats conference pears
Occasionally she hears the birds
singing in Greek as they fly by
Death, which will claim her is always waiting.
Aug 21, 2015
Aug 21, 2015 at 4:18 PM UTC
light travels in straight lines
but truth often gets inverted
when worded through the pin-
holed window of closed minds
and blinds us with distracting
theories refracting on white walls
in a world of royals and riyals
and unnamed dark chambers.
Jan 12, 2015
Jan 12, 2015 at 12:20 PM UTC