Warren Shaw    |    Interdisciplinary artist

1.67 : 08.02.09

 

So it begins in another place in another time. The master sings the lights replicate his call. She follows him anew, with trust in his hands and faith in hers. History flows like a river and history repeats. Fire lights come and go. Hot fears burn low. We all follow the deer into the thick snow. We slipped at the first but we carried her through. Twigs talk of our footsteps and the clouds cut of our thoughts. I found the speaker he was dead. It happened when there was nothing left to be said. The deer fled. It was me it was you; it was everything that was new. It all counts for something. Even a penny is not worth nothing. The sow stung our eyes and melted through mine. Mine was the ship, the bow and your waves. Endless was the sea and all we were was pelted battered and free. The land fell on a moment. Split its core and found our format. It’s all there. A pure ball. Golden, smitten and folded. We all position behind nothing to wait and hold onto something. Because something is nothing and nothing is something. It’s a ribbon and we are the ends. With our arms in ribbons and our hearts in mind. We find all of ourselves in the other that binds. Its blind and its clear, but I scream it isn’t clear. You may scream too but into which ear? The one that listens or that one that fears. Remember there are sixty-four of them. It’s technical and slow but it remains, all aglow. Softly her hand is mine. A shape just under the sublime. It remains important that we have minds. When our hearts and ears break all our peers. I second that. Yet it can all fall through. The ribbon can break. But we must return. For goodness sake. Sigh. Intolerable fires suck on empty fibres. But we are bound to the absent driver. In all its free, stalled under a tree. Only horses for friends, but we must depend. You know what I say, it matters today. My head hurts like shit. Break out of the pit. Sit clean and shut up. My work will not split. We are not rubbish or shit. Our place is fit. Internal we are and lights convince this. Heaven knows were not coming. Its gates are long bitten. Years of the lines cut by our paths are just smitten. With praise and forlorn our moths will not die, for all our fears fall flat past our eyes. Why can’t I end this? I can’t even deny the path we are taking, you won’t even lie. It cuts through the trees and falls on the leaves. Round, down and unbroken. Our dreams might die. Break through from our solace and slash our tyres. Rubber is perverse but so bitterly on fire. It will slow the downtrodden but bring them to bear. Level the ground so no one need stare. My mind is unblinking, your ears borrow mine. Our eyes meet over the distance. Should I promise that it’s all fine?

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