Friday, February 09, 2018

Ghosts in the Wood

Sunset (Medusa) ~ Eugène Berman 1945


Through mask and filter he inhales the scent of timber coming from where the geometricised tree meat is stacked behind razor security for utilisation by the construction machines, and his chest is constricted by an inexplicable band of loss; breathless and wordless as the cultural vacuum that created him.
Among the smell of ozone and burnt plastics, the metal-clad clatter of industry, he takes the final essence of a forest as a personal gift, and since there is no other human flesh within a three hundred-kilometre radius, we should perhaps forgive him this vanity.
But the presumed dead trees will survive some time more in spirit. Their drying sap will continue to perfume the air with their message:
we will sleep under the ashes
we will outlive your folly


Tales for an attention deficit world

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