Tuesday, November 25, 2014

freeze frame

Inside the ice cave, we are blind, and home-bound.

We scrape furiously at the thick glaze on the windshield.

With difficulty, we make our way out into the world. 

We watch. A dark-haired man enters a cafe, surrounded by several children. He sits. His youngest daughter clings to his hand. They eat. They speak a language which makes use of round vowels and playful syllables. His smile takes its slow time to emerge over the horizon. His mustache curls approvingly. She has come at last, Mamacita, her raven-locks piled high. A few stray curls escape strategically from her coiffure. Her arched, plucked brows. The light in his glance. A murmur. She turns to us and smiles, imparting to us a wordless secret of utmost importance.

___________________

Fancy, filigreed thoughts arrive at random, and depart on dragon-fly wings:


Pierrot is drunk on moon-wine
after the tedious masked ball.
He stumbles on a feathered fan,
as perfumed with lavender
as his lost love, Columbina,
and crushes it to his heart.

The beloved darkness murmurs.
Beneath his ribs, the pulse
Is a throbbing behind bars,
seeking an unseen filament.
Slumber and dawn approach.
In his grip--a Firebird glimmers.

___________________

Dear Inner Child,

Yes, you are correct. I've strangled her again. Stifled, once more, her moans of agony, her groans, her endless sighs, her countless tears, her wasted years, in some seemingly senseless, repeated noir script, in favor of the status quo. 

And yet, what is it that she most wishes to convey in this moment?

Sketch it out briefly,  as if in silken sand:

The trees --

a frame --

a pair of eyes --

a soul -- a flame --

May all who know what it is to be cruelly crushed lead the way to Love --

let nothing keep our feet from this path -- we surely know where we do not want to go --


Natalia Goncharova, 1912


2 comments:

bluestorm said...

Wonderful entry !! Breathtaking . . .

Iulia Flame said...

Grateful to you, bluestorm.

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