Samuel Dodson
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Hunger by Samuel Dodson
For a long time he stood with the lights out, looking through the blinds at the gravel lot and the incessant lights of the trucks going by on the highway. He counted thirty-seven of the 86,400 seconds of the day, tried to time each of his thoughts in time with his heartbeat. His mind fell over itself, impossible rings of colour almost blinded him and he paused. He could see a green dress lifted by the wind on the streets of Harlem as infinite laughter spilled down the walls, running along sidewalks and concrete playgrounds. He set his glass of water down at his feet. The water was dead. Bubbles…
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Darkness by Samuel Dodson
Words fall over themselves in the darkness, tumbling, as they are spoken. In a torrent they merge with each other with the ease that comes from knowing they have all been said before, each one written a thousand times thousand million times in every possible order and or conjunction. And in the darkness there are no images. Can these words exist there, then? Alone, lonely, so lonely without the meaning of an image to illuminate the shadows. Without even the faintest outline, the words lie in the umbra. If they cannot see celestial bodies, do they exist? Can they exist? Can words see? Cosmic thought lies restless in words shrouded…
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‘All the Pieces matter’, Garbagea’s place in the Blue Marble – An Interview with Asher Jay
http://www.garbagea.com/ As 2011 draws to a close, and the final year of the Mayan Calendar approaches (read into that what you will) what will our motto of the year be? What have we gleaned from events such as the Arab Spring; the Japanese Tsunami; The ‘Occupy’ Movements; the Eurozone crisis; riots in London and other UK cities; The Last Harry Potter Movie (shock horror) and an ever deepening economic and ecological crisis? How we interpret these events, and the course of action we choose to take over the coming months and years is crucial. We stand at a crux. Recents events have shown…
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Summer (Part III) by Samuel Dodson
We stand at the crux, the crossroad. Looking sideways; down the elongated stretch of path, a chasm of jaundice light scratches the night, as the chain gang marches, falteringly towards us, deep with exhaustion, from long hours in the gold mines. Moonlight would glint on their tools, yet the sky is overcast with vapours we cannot see. On the horizon the tower blocks soar, rising through the deep set clouds, hanging on the edge of cliffs; Their foundations undermined by the rush of waves, It is perilous and sexy – “Strike once more Poseidon!” It could be that the wind, having roused itself from intermittent engagement with its chore of the day (to breeze) has whipped through the whisps…
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Meandering the Limit with Asher Jay
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The Firing Squad by Samuel Dodson
Shadows cast on the wall of execution linger after their host figure has moved on. They cling to the embrace of death, filtered through the smoke like nicotine. Sound in the yard is dictated by the wall alone. It provides the ethereal una corda ambience for executively commissioned killing. The soldier had never set his gaze upon Monet. Youth slipped from his eyes, giving way to the sadness of experience. He studied his reflection, distorted by the curvature of the gun barrel which may not hold a bullet, before turning his gaze towards a dark morning sky. The prisoner’s face was etched with tattoo ink of time, which seemed to…
