OTHER VOICES CALL US


            In this the mystery: green mannerisms flicker cast-iron lightning across lace skies high over the city. We are not far from The Gates of Paradise; yet another message greets us as we arrive.
            Hypnotic guesswork is not enough to go on if we are to penetrate this labyrinth of darkness where your hysterical works dominate the minds of the rabble in the streets. This is all below acceptable levels, at least as we try to answer for the blue clouds suffocating the world – the season has opened – the doors have closed – it is a tissue of lies. The island drowns in the blood of reason.
           No – Nothing may exist.
           No – there are no waves.
           No – there are only memories.
           After sunset, the mystery; dark winged hyacinths fly away fluttering crystals behind my eyes.
          Teeth, breasts, hair, cats, umbrellas, cars, planets, mirrors, open airspace, tree-trunks, acid, windows… all defy the ultimate weight of time with a hideous quiet that flies in the face of fear. A ferocious purity incinerates your revolution in a lead-lined crucible of fire. Fragile sensibilities give way. There are only twenty-four hours…only…
          The Old Lion struggles out into the sun.
No more peace. No more. No more.
         Under the influence of my waking mind people in the sky have bombarded the village with mauve clouds. But now I look back over my shoulder. Other voices call us.
Skulls and princes move quietly, they have much in common.
        The landscape gasps a bitter irony, black birds hover low, preparing us for another life. We clash in The Temple of the Masses, eventually burrowing underground to take cover from reality and evade the rescuers. Treason walks behind the sun, afraid of the future, in love with menace, while a fatherless hand grasps the world by the throat uttering oracles and slogans.
       Survive in the rain from the fountains high above the city.
       The heart, the eye beyond self, is drained, listening to those other voices, those other cries. This space is somehow a new place to love or die.
       Once, or even twice, everything collapsed beneath the sea. Dead birds fall close to your bed, on the beach in the morning, enclosing us once and for all in their desperate embrace.
       Unnoticed, another cold essence from abstract space, denied existence by this ritual of lawless night, transforms itself into a shadow of disunity…there are only twenty-four hours…

 

 

A.C. Evans


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