Friday, April 09, 2004

Tautological shapes

Oval rolls awkwardly
Line squeaks and sneaks
An equation can never be the same

You turn a corner in the Tate Modern and face Dalí's "Narcissus"
Carved in stoned you hardly sense the flower that springs from your head
You recede behind the mountain catching
A last look at yourself in the river, stoned

So many of us and yet so few
So many duplications and

the joy and the laughter and the paraknowledge
that's on offer, up there, at the third floor at the Tate Modern when you
suspend your self, Kant-like, or
distract extract contract and explode your self
in front of Matisse's headless therapist,
opening his coat to reveal his interior: a bird cage
opened, and yet two birds remain there, perching,
resting waiting

I leave my mind at the counter of another restless nightwatch
It is cold, next stop the Fridge
Rolling over and over, speaking, squeaking, sneaking
Equating same with same

Clapham Junction, London
9 April 2004