You’ll see the icons, lacerated into plausibility, escaping from their niches, running wild through a scene collaged from soft Italian suede, awash in Botticelli Green. You’ll see satyrs dancing barefoot and mathematicians blinded by your wild daisy skirts stretching points into straight lines with such grim mindfulness their beards begin to fall like snow, like frozen breath, like some archangel. And only then will the sun set upon the ledges to dangle from trees its leaky wetware vulcanized. The lurid sums and colors lure boys to the bordello where women slake their thirst with crude meanders. A reminder: The inventor of this curse knew nothing about magic so bring on the next disaster. “But look, my wounds have healed.” My god, foreverafter’s just a nocturne played at noon, a Dutchman telescoping time into a single Roman candle! tyranny of rhyme slinks in like some Medusa nearly hypnotized with laughter. are distances that no good Platonist should try to master.
By Elizabeth Marie Young
Aim Straight At The Fountain And Press Vaporise