A childhood speaking against the drying wind 

Voice over:

The unforgettable is some wordless moment, held nevertheless in words:
(w)here we apprehend a somatic relationship to image.
 
 

Enter drenched
Voice over:
 
 

Inland ...
shiver of an unknown hope 
need unfurls
bending towards its search, 

a magnetic advance
across the dunes made speechless
against the drying wind of all that is known 
inscribe with breath some shape 
pressing the eye of mind ...

silence collects
meanings hover
words  abandoned
sound a  distant ... sea

Voice over:

A priori 
embedded within the ancient erotic curve
of the imaginary of the symbolic of that 
which forms us deep beneath the covers

our work enunciates thought
becoming shape  ...
following air ...

This is egocentric
a whorl of ripples set out as
I drop in concentric utterings
talk ... I am all ... talk

I will repeat myself, bending towards a returning sense, I will blur half shut my eyes to listen, I must advance to return, stepping on stones in the dark in a landscape where desire makes light and need is a beacon, this land is floating, a mind, a venue, a place where something can occur, stepping on stones in the dark, not knowing, reaching for words inadequate, approximate, close but not close enough, hearing myself hear when I do across a great expanse of time, a returning sense across a great expanse of time  these words return to me as homes, the places where I curl in need, the places where I hold myself  ... here!

The perceptual stage
the scene of thought: 
the proscenium:

The image: 
the room rains
the scene: 
a marriage-bed pressed
a table set
laid in silence so flat 
the chequered cloth
clings on 
pretending permanence

Night turns to day
her worn-out thumb strokes
a child's  sweet-corn-hair. 
and reassures against shouts
that hurl our lives against a wall.

The twisted ring on her finger
screws a tight lid on feeling 
she bites grist, swallows  hard fat
holding up a house 
that is our mothers' body

I try to understand
bare-foot
naked-beneath-the-nightie
I am a flower girl marked 
here on threadbare floor

Its floral prints
are islands
an archipelago of safe havens 
these patterns
on the floorboards of my heart
which are the shocks of childhood

When night turns to day
I am made primitive
made witness 
to the jarring of my girlhood 
I draw the outline of my foot 
at the threshold of my mothers door
conceal and marry a scene
of agony or ecstasy
I could not tell which

Now
I am dramatised

From this Now on
there will be always 
the possibility of rooms 
with no walls where rain falls

My voice still shakes 
in this place 
that  swallows space

Down the twirling 
vortex of my ear
through the wide iris eyes
a stone sinks

it waits 
beneath surfaces
listening...
forming ...