I once read a book and I was contaminated by its contents...
Now within the cage of my chest there beats a second heart.
An arcane construct, engineered in miniature brass rivets and braided copper membranes, silver tubes, gold valves and steam hissing subsonic.
No blood here; the medium being pumped is an abstract rendering of emotion; a word on the tip of my tongue; a memory of perfume.
I am no mystic; no third-eye me; but the feelings evoked by this machine bypass what I say I am and what I patently am not.
As the heart runs its tiny articulated spider-like fingers over maps creased from being folded closed for too long; makeshift bandages over ancient wounds unhealed; I lift my hand to wipe the tears in which my vision struggles to swim.
As chambers echo the erosion and the lifelines, the rusted clock cogs and toys without eyes, the memories that exclude words, I cry out to the night and to the howling moon.
And having read the contours of my life the heart proceeds to project an avatar of that life upon the screen of my day; adding street signs at left turns unturned and tinting the lens of my calling.
I am no more than a simulacrum for the days I have that lived and the mistakes I have made.
I once was content for the book to read me...
Now within the cage of my chest there beats a second heart.
An arcane construct, engineered in miniature brass rivets and braided copper membranes, silver tubes, gold valves and steam hissing subsonic.
No blood here; the medium being pumped is an abstract rendering of emotion; a word on the tip of my tongue; a memory of perfume.
I am no mystic; no third-eye me; but the feelings evoked by this machine bypass what I say I am and what I patently am not.
As the heart runs its tiny articulated spider-like fingers over maps creased from being folded closed for too long; makeshift bandages over ancient wounds unhealed; I lift my hand to wipe the tears in which my vision struggles to swim.
As chambers echo the erosion and the lifelines, the rusted clock cogs and toys without eyes, the memories that exclude words, I cry out to the night and to the howling moon.
And having read the contours of my life the heart proceeds to project an avatar of that life upon the screen of my day; adding street signs at left turns unturned and tinting the lens of my calling.
I am no more than a simulacrum for the days I have that lived and the mistakes I have made.
I once was content for the book to read me...
6 comments:
Is this part of a larger work? Because I'm totally riveted. An earlier one about a female alien (if I recall correctly) was just as fabulous.
An aside... do you read Heavy Metal? I get that vibe a lot here.
JeffScape (May I call you Jeff?): This is another one of my microscopic pieces - astute observation regarding Heavy Metal - YES I have a few copies from the 80's - wonderful stuff, although I was not consciously chanelling anything I guess it must be an influence.
the once content ( but no longer?) reference is a great ( provisional) ending to this piece. i am always impressed by how you make inside worlds accessible to me, as reader, by how you work with these intriguing hybridities.
Harlequin: the dubious benefit of being born under a melancholy moon I guess :]
great, cryptic as usual but beautiful to read
Tom: Makes perfect sense to me ;D
Post a Comment