Uncategorized

Can you trust the artistic eye of a poet about to be executed?

It was a perfect day, when I died. The sun searingly bright as it hung above the haze which met the end of spring. Leaves clung to branches with a vivacity which would make poets cry if they weren’t indulgently expressing themselves on opium. The wearied birdsong, lackadaisical in a sultry heat, brought the flash of Xanadu to the grains of sand which had buried themselves beneath my eyelashes.

Shadows had crept throughout the day, seemingly separated from the objects they attached themselves to. There was a distance between my body and my shadow, a fissure of light which became a schism in a rock-face, a void within galactic space time.

The watch I had worn on my person for ten years and never felt a tick from it’s broken clockwork began to tell time once more. I dropped it at the feet of one of my executioners as if to draw the line under the encapsulated time on my skin. Under the time which was etched beneath willow branches, beside idyllic water lilies.

The torrent of a gushing waterfall which fell around Kubla Kahn tumbled through the thoughts of my mind. Not with a sense to purify but to exist alongside. Pure water and internalized theorization, creating the perfect balance of madness.

Distant winds washed long lengths of grass with a weight that created motion in the fields as if waves on a calm sea. The sea which had struck salt in my eyes when I was young lingered for a moment behind my pupils and was gone. Yet the salt which had made my eyes sore remained; that salt which I had bled tears to dissolve, and all so that I could plunge into the swell of water at the will of someone whom I loved.

Everywhere was colour; the world awash with an impassioned painter’s brushstroke. Flowers were swollen with an unfulfillable desire which made them beautiful, and they were dashed everywhere except the holy building which grew from the ground full of an ornate melancholy which made children cry. It swallowed the sensation of symphony which encapsulated the world around it. Flecked with a creed which choked passers by, all I could think of when I looked at it, was whether innocence was possible, and what, exactly, it was.

The latest news in contemporary and modern art in New York, London, Paris and Berlin

2 Comments

  • Anonymous

    I love the darker shade which surrounds each of the members of the firing squad pictured here, it's as if they have a touch of death about them.

    Incidentally, what is the symbol they have on their caps, is it a star or a red circle?

  • Anonymous

    Love the intensity of these last thoughts/sensations. And the tension of the title: Can I trust….?

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *