Art, poetry, digital art, photography, criticism and essays.

24 Dec 2011

During November 2011 (4. A Dance for Horus)

Spliced by several cataclysms

Persephone is diced

and a Falcon

became our sexual freedom,

a longing for truth

that otherwise

should not be written

for an Owl is greater

than an Eagle

and an Eagle Owl is neither.

Roll the dice

your hand is gratuitous,

the ecstasy of the female


chessing as the leaves of

a book a Jazz hand

flamboyant at the carvery

a Pigs head, a la morte

de la morte, rings the

pain of parting

And dessert is an open wound

Sisyphean, Dionysian

beyond the scope of words

we should paint or photograph

this Shakespearian moment

as feeding our culture,

as being its downfall.

Ballerinas dancing, balancing

the table on our laps

a twist of fate

as a die is thrown,

a finger points a la asymmetrical

vaginas pivoted West,

pirouettes through pork

and sherry trifles

Apples fall to the floor

and bread is soaked in wine

and whiskey.

The dancers' beauty by some

implicit chemistry alludes,

allegorically to a guest

masturbating then spurting

onto bread

fickle sliced

by scissored hands.

By luck, as near intrinsic

as truth

to the duck and mushrooms

vinaigrette, salsa and

oranges soaked in white rum,

for the steel of an

Achilles tendon

feathers Apollonian

A stage, a theatrical performance

via CCTV

slipped into shadows by

covert snappers

for Flickr and Youtube

Facebook or Twitter,

Art is consumed like a

Jackal at a lamb

and art's traces are sold for

greater monies

than to put this poor project

beyond the realms of imagination

borrowed, begged or stolen

bruised or finished by the

ups and downs

of inflation.

We must only see with adequate


and enquire with open minds

to witness the truth

we cannot escape

that we are the prisoners

of our own devices.


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