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23.2.06
i believe in scissors.
i need a beach.
a beach of pebbles, stones, round like sunken bubbles, bubbles going downwards, pressed my the thousand s's of the sea until they became heavy, heavy-coloured, heavy-sounded when they bounce down the breathing slopes, shining.
i need a beach, covered in a film of rain, a rain of silken freeze, a layer of glow, glow from the sky, falling like bubbles, pale powder bubbles which got trapped by a brown net of puddle, waited until the sun popped the bubbles, made them rise like dirty balloons, into clouds the colour of chewed paper.
i need a beach, with massive black rocks.
standing out, to face the sea, the sea the sky, the sea the sky sees me, wallpapered by cardboard, cliffs that if you were pushed back by some silent hand, would fit exactly would fit into the bends by your shoulderblades, go in where your spine lives, into the curve of the small of your back, the way it rises when it gets stroked.
i need a beach, i think, as the same stroking touches of snow, to stand on the blackest rock, to stare out to the whitest sky, the coldest wind, incased in a coat, asking the rest of everything with a million blacklines, blue circles, black circles, white rubbings out for eyes, asking it all everything i want to know and can i change?
can i change to be that. can i forget those things that keep me from getting on. focus on being better than anyone could have ever been instead of sweeling with wet when you think for someone else.
so lets use the steel of the wet and the steel of the sky to make blades like the leaves on a branch in a road full of trees. to make blades, to cut the pieces we dont want, cut off the ties which cross the bad parts with the bad parts, cut the bubbles in honeycomb of our hearts, release antyhing that keeps us back. lets form blades from streets and bridges and pavement, make blades into scissors.
pairs of swinging blades pinned together with everything that was ever cold. we can make these, and once they cut through all that ochre string, they fall they fall and tumble and no one ever thinks of them, pressed into those same silver bubbles, round and round and round underfoot, round and round and round for my eyes, roun round round round round in the freezing weather untilwe fall down ourselves and wake up cut, bruised, but new and perfect.
i believe in scissors.
to cut us into strips to burst bubbles and soak up everything.
whispered by killa b at 4:28 PM |
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