Saturday, January 19, 2008

//Ill Arrows All Awry//

//Ill Arrows All Awry//
A rose cigar end between his fingers and a thought blossoming into the brain:
“The death of a cigarette proceeds you”.
A man smokes putting his ashes into his wife’s urn,
at around one in the afternoon and
an irremissible crescent of sun shines on the horizon.

“How tragic that love between two people can never be anything more than folie à deux, déjà vu? …quelquechose, comme un trou dans le vent.

Taught nothing but enough
There’s nothing to say.”

Will never reach nearly the right shade of yellow
reaching through his ears like pollen kisses on his rosy way.

Ill arrows,
all awry

Something I've been milling away at based on an as yet incomplete rather post-apocalyptic short story I was working on about nuclear winter in England. These are just my thoughts on an allegory of a man that the main character encounters at some point on his way across part of the country. The tone's rather noir. The last bit came to me just now after talking to James a bit about the absurdity of Valentine's day even when you're with someone.

French traduction:
'folie à deux, déjà vu? …quelquechose, comme un trou dans le vent.' = 'a madness shared by two (rare psychological condition), already seen (self-explanatory)...something (an implacable intangible something), like a hole in the wind'

1 comment:

sovietturkey said...

I love the flower-cigar(ette) duality/dichotomy/cycle you create. The cigar makes ashes out of men, which in turn produces dust (as all men rise and return to), which is scattered about by the wind along with seeds, which gives birth to flowers, life, and man once more. And that's just a hopeful observation at a simple level, not taking into consideration profoundity.

You're a regular T.S. Eliot, is what this reminds me of.

(Check the last post for more discussion on the publication scheme.)