Concrete Hearts, the Deep End Keys and the Miniaturist's Poetry of Sleep

“Concrete Hearts, the Deep End Keys and the Miniaturist's Poetry of Sleep” Following the Babel paths, where footprints progress like rough-hewn braille, temptation shows itself well deep to be turned and touched, substantially labyrinth The Open is lead further in, and The Uninviting untouched, concrete hearts too cool to be immersed in their devices, unlike the crucifix strung bee-stung hornets casting their templar aspersions, their well-acquainted prophecies and conspiracies and hammered assizes, remain floating on top, highly strung together treading water like nonunique conventional bobbing altered-buoys coated in their common brown habits, poetically preying their solidarity, contradictions like benedictions, rosaries are worn out around each noosed neck, content with the repeat mechanism in their wakened pillory stocks, unevolving and frenzied, unstill, they repeat the feeding off each from the other oh yes, they are highly strung together, well acquainted by now - they think – they are close old friends to be trusted; their thoughts are well and truly lost - they thought too highly of their thoughts before they were lost in the reading open eyes of the Other, where any empathy now from that one, is cause perdue and with a burning silver bullet without any hesitation, is ruthlessly and bloodlessly shot between the I’s; their baldface grimaces balayage their lying hirsute dry lines to swallow and eat each poisonous word planted they twist and slither like venomous serpents, they think they are mythical basilisks hatched from a cock’s egg, they are merely the diseased carriers; yet, viewed from a certain angle, they appear more as blind worms now dead, in the Other’s mind, they resemble mummified heads hanging burley dangling by a long cord along a short net - they are now not running out from the mouth without thought anymore, like bulls to a well-blooded white flag, breathless, they are contained within their small boxes, their well-furnished tight little prisons, non-individual, aggregate, pedestrian, they mark the whey, stitched-mouth and sullen, nowhere near Golden they are a sullied pale yellow, sold solid in their cruel unity seated muckily in their ego stools they are removed with flint tweezers, small and palely discoloured, maggots, unwanted insects, they are buried a great distance under their own dirt, they are of little consequence to the voyeur now, irretrievably they are the unforgiven - forgiveness is just a fey flighty word - there is no compensation for their error-soaked judgement - they failed to venture fathoms further in, flowing faithfully towards The Deep; they are observed by the Miniaturist, each one exactly placed as a disgrace; somewhere Other, feathered fingers tap dance like irremovable red shoes banjo-crazed to unheard music, their muses unveiled within the ole Opry, hover above it all, Candy’s cane in hand, well-balanced, tight rope walking, signs of crossing over the cowardly misspelled curds - the debating dead are of no concern; the tarred and feathered dive deep to negotiate hidden keys from their dunking chair, their tears spill like luminol against a wall of words underneath an Ocean fluorescing reflection - a tilted silent pale blue, dispelling the Wonderfull Discoverie never as above so below; alive another day, Black Dog - tongue out for scraps sacramental mannas wafer thin dreamable capsules warm incantations the poetry of sleep a tilted silent pale blue deep fathomless statue fluorescing within a solitary Ocean lit vividly velvet marine within deep currents the sonar heart of a ghost is felt, found and held, as if in a dream never lost it is bound Candide Diderot. ‘25 “Art always opts for the individual, the concrete; art is not Platonic.” Jorge Luis Borges “I told you about strawberry fields You know the place where nothing is real Well, here's another place you can go Where everything flows Looking through the bent-backed tulips To see how the other half lives Looking through a glass onion...” “If sleep is truce, as it is sometimes said, a pure time for the mind to rest and heal, why, when they suddenly wake you, do you feel that they have stolen everything you had?” Jorge Luis Borges “Sleep” "If sleep is truce, as it is sometimes said, a pure time for the mind to rest and heal, why, when they suddenly wake you, do you feel that they have stolen everything you had? Why is it so sad to be awake at dawn? It strips us of a gift so strange, so deep, it can be remembered only in half-sleep, moments of drowsiness that gild and adorn. The waking mind with dreams, which may well be but broken images of the night’s treasure, a timeless world that has no name or measure and breaks up in the mirrors of the day. Who will you be tonight, in the dark thrall of sleep, when you have slipped across its wall?" Jorge Luis Borges