Sobbing slithers sinking slowly
Shifting shapes of silhouettes,
Subtle shapes, secure and lonely
Slit the air and its regrets.
Spoken language, syllables...
From a tongue forked in two slivers,
Silver sparks from the sharp fangs
Call some stranger here of thither.
Tether, line, spinning soundly,
Spiral wrapping someone's senses.
Like the voice of ill intent...
Phantom spoken from the fences.
Sadness, sorrow and the rest,
Play their music in his speech.
Silken stringed, this puppeteer
Draws his puppets in his reach.
Skin like scales, scarlet gleaming
Spew the smell of scented smoke.
Coiling coils around the body,
Closing life with simple stroke.
Swearing sentence like an oath,
Sacred place, enclosed...outspread.
Tempting guests in undergrowth,
Speaking stories...to the dead.
Friday 7 December 2007
Tuesday 4 December 2007
London Rain
London RainThe sullen streets they mourn the noon
That's caught behind the Heaven's gloom.
And wept the cobbles are, from bearing
All those tears the clouds are wearing.
And all the trees are wet and Grey,
Lifeless watchers of the day,
They spy the sadness of the alleys,
Remnant of the hills and valleys.
And if a hope, might, weary rise
From this thought of sad demise,
Just an echo shall remain
Stifled in the London Rain.
Monday 12 November 2007
Ode To November
The cobbled streets shine in the tragic lamplight.They extend in corridors and endless pathways, leading into perdition.No trace of solace could be found on the grey walls that can bearly hold their own, fleeting, grace.Empty and spaceless the street unfolds, November. The damp sidewalk gapes into fine cracks, that seem to stream up and beyond unclear limits.The sound of running water, the trickle of some unseen stream, the dead waters of the street.Falling, crooked rooftops loom over the bent buildings, grey dusk and the storming crows, November.Trees that reach out in a hundred arms with a thousand fingers, grasping the fog that milks over the city, unholy watchers of the evening twisting their bodies into demented shapes against the fading hues of mock colour.Tiny shards of glassy rain cut our troubled faces, and the wind licks and salts our heavenly lacerations.The loneliness of the streetlamps pride into abandonment, November.No prayers for November...
"(...) Along the reaches of the street held in a lunar synthesis, whispers lunar incantations dissolve the floors of memory and all its clear relations its divisions and precisions.Every streetlamp that I pass beats like a fatalistic drum, and through the spaces of the dark midnight shakes the memory as a madman shakes a dead geranium."( T. S. Eliot - Rhapsody on a Windy Night )
November's cold chain constricts my wake, and sings me its lullaby.Once heavy eyes close up their lashes the specters of insomnia take form out of the shapeless grey window frames, November.Black smoke from old chimneys, black ravens and grey skies, November my firing squad.
"(...) Along the reaches of the street held in a lunar synthesis, whispers lunar incantations dissolve the floors of memory and all its clear relations its divisions and precisions.Every streetlamp that I pass beats like a fatalistic drum, and through the spaces of the dark midnight shakes the memory as a madman shakes a dead geranium."( T. S. Eliot - Rhapsody on a Windy Night )
November's cold chain constricts my wake, and sings me its lullaby.Once heavy eyes close up their lashes the specters of insomnia take form out of the shapeless grey window frames, November.Black smoke from old chimneys, black ravens and grey skies, November my firing squad.
Monday 1 October 2007
The Derelict
Dear reader,
I should make this an opening post, one in which I welcome you in a kind of warm hospitality, to better suit your mood; and to state that I am here to please your eye with some flight of fancy.This is not the case, though...Here in this little wretched corner, that I affectionately dubbed "The Cat and Fiddle" you will not find solace, and I do not intend to write in a form of mock poesy* to amuse you.But still there is hope for your satisfaction with the "unique"...I am sure that among my downward spirals of thought you shall find an odd fascination with the very things that make my heart resonate in a myriad of tones, that are crafted in such an architecture it will either leave you enchanted or in little awe.So, with these trifles out of the way we may begin to further follow...
It was past five o'clock...I was the only one in a party of eight that still complained about the fact that i did not have my tea ( and that was of meager importance, because I was the only one to keep to such a custom ).We were on the outskirts of this lovely city of ours, in a middle of a grassy field.A great mass of clouds were towering their frames to stifle the dusky sky.And in this tightening of nonexistent tendons the feeble red glare of the sun managed to find it's way through rough openings.We were dragging our feet through the fine mud that was just beneath the tall grass...There was a lot of cursing, even from the ladies in our lot.The wind didn't help our state, but only amplified our inert anxieties.On its gentle Eastern breeze it brought the stench of decay.Waste and animal death...for you see, we were near a great rubbish pit ( one of the largest of our city, I believe ).
Here ought to be the part where I reveal the purpose of our being there, why such a large party? and other information leading towards some paroxistical chain of events.But that is all of too little bother...For right in front of me, stifling my eyes, erecting itself over my sight was the shape of a derelict abbey.Its form was all that was left of it...great "murs" of geometrical beauty heaved themselves up into the air.A delicate balancing act of weather worn arcades and columns, and the spectacle of the sheer mass of bricks was enough to stamp the feel of tininess unto anyone who dared to openly view this as such.
It was empty...only its walls remained. Large holes punctured them, once stain glass adorned their insides, now only voided sockets and lidless windows staring inside and out of wilderness.A great, cracked dome broke itself over our heads.The shattered beauty of skilled masons now the perch of crows and ravens.Dozens upon dozens lined the jagged teeth of red brick which made out from the base of the dome.Malevolent, black, staring us down with an evil eye, croaking seldom, startled upon our intrusion into their solitary den. Flapping ill wings, harvesters of decay the birds that are the crow and raven, the watchers of the derelict.
Three large gateless entrances made light in the western wall...The sun was tumbling down in a yellow glow.It was not cheerful, not even melancholic, but diseased.The sky was putting out its daytime light in sickness, a pestilence of the clouds, of the whole clime, which blew on us with a wind of plague, a stench of unbirth.
This was all played out in front of me last summer, and my dearest reader due note that even in the most abandoned corners you might stumble upon, chance and happening are subjects to be ruled out.As I found out later on, this brought on great joy to me, a gift maybe...for I do believe in the stuff that memories are gained and lost upon, in such stuff that, even if impenetrable, is still mirrored back in fancy, and fancy turned, by nothing less than subtle alchemy, into living flesh.
Yours A. Aron
I should make this an opening post, one in which I welcome you in a kind of warm hospitality, to better suit your mood; and to state that I am here to please your eye with some flight of fancy.This is not the case, though...Here in this little wretched corner, that I affectionately dubbed "The Cat and Fiddle" you will not find solace, and I do not intend to write in a form of mock poesy* to amuse you.But still there is hope for your satisfaction with the "unique"...I am sure that among my downward spirals of thought you shall find an odd fascination with the very things that make my heart resonate in a myriad of tones, that are crafted in such an architecture it will either leave you enchanted or in little awe.So, with these trifles out of the way we may begin to further follow...
It was past five o'clock...I was the only one in a party of eight that still complained about the fact that i did not have my tea ( and that was of meager importance, because I was the only one to keep to such a custom ).We were on the outskirts of this lovely city of ours, in a middle of a grassy field.A great mass of clouds were towering their frames to stifle the dusky sky.And in this tightening of nonexistent tendons the feeble red glare of the sun managed to find it's way through rough openings.We were dragging our feet through the fine mud that was just beneath the tall grass...There was a lot of cursing, even from the ladies in our lot.The wind didn't help our state, but only amplified our inert anxieties.On its gentle Eastern breeze it brought the stench of decay.Waste and animal death...for you see, we were near a great rubbish pit ( one of the largest of our city, I believe ).
Here ought to be the part where I reveal the purpose of our being there, why such a large party? and other information leading towards some paroxistical chain of events.But that is all of too little bother...For right in front of me, stifling my eyes, erecting itself over my sight was the shape of a derelict abbey.Its form was all that was left of it...great "murs" of geometrical beauty heaved themselves up into the air.A delicate balancing act of weather worn arcades and columns, and the spectacle of the sheer mass of bricks was enough to stamp the feel of tininess unto anyone who dared to openly view this as such.
It was empty...only its walls remained. Large holes punctured them, once stain glass adorned their insides, now only voided sockets and lidless windows staring inside and out of wilderness.A great, cracked dome broke itself over our heads.The shattered beauty of skilled masons now the perch of crows and ravens.Dozens upon dozens lined the jagged teeth of red brick which made out from the base of the dome.Malevolent, black, staring us down with an evil eye, croaking seldom, startled upon our intrusion into their solitary den. Flapping ill wings, harvesters of decay the birds that are the crow and raven, the watchers of the derelict.
Three large gateless entrances made light in the western wall...The sun was tumbling down in a yellow glow.It was not cheerful, not even melancholic, but diseased.The sky was putting out its daytime light in sickness, a pestilence of the clouds, of the whole clime, which blew on us with a wind of plague, a stench of unbirth.
This was all played out in front of me last summer, and my dearest reader due note that even in the most abandoned corners you might stumble upon, chance and happening are subjects to be ruled out.As I found out later on, this brought on great joy to me, a gift maybe...for I do believe in the stuff that memories are gained and lost upon, in such stuff that, even if impenetrable, is still mirrored back in fancy, and fancy turned, by nothing less than subtle alchemy, into living flesh.
Yours A. Aron
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