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
Copyright ©
Candide Diderot
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