Imprinted in print,

cuttings from the page before,

pressed in permanent capital,

only the slightest dent on what’s possible.

Contoured carved crevasses,

wide wild white between lines,

cauterising incalculable dominions.

A palimpsest satyr.

Speaking snakes and ladders.

Secret secreted staircase,

a constant carnival motif.

Caged claws behind walls and bars beaten.

Averting the light into neat little pools,

of cold colour and contrast,

that doesn’t play anyway,

for fear of the touch grappling back.

These marks are older now,

positioned, intended,

had the buried killed dead.

Turning another, still hunger.

Broken vegetable pieces,

brain ached awake.

Backward impressions,

pushing on through.

The present motion,

movement’s measure,

the moment’s multiple,

meandering meanings.




© Greg Fiddament 2018
Illustration Nick Victor

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