WINTERS STUDIO  + Sound
  
In the Winters Studio, I am like a
ghost, I am improbable, dressed
like a donkeys dinner . . .
  
The ray of my eye speaks you,
as you once spoke me,
when I was unborn . . .
   
 
A bony beast, a wild interloper,
an awkward curmudgeon,
a feeder on carrion . . .
  
I know that language well, every
bead of it, it has spirals that fill the
world, and all beyond . . .
   
 
The flowers this year seem to
falter. Their comforts fail, petals
fall upon the carpet . . .
  
The disappeared, once faraway,
once someone else's ghosts,
now look over all our shoulders . . .
   
 
Listen child, The eye of the Crow
follows the Kestrel, and the eye of
the Kestrel follows the Lamb . . .
  
I sit at this table of remembrance,
your shadows are with me,
and all along the coast . . .
   
 
In the dark, dreaming, laughing,
running again, with the strange
beast and the words of death . . .
  
Smoke rose over the lintel like a
curtain, and sleep filled the
furniture in that room . . .
   
 
I will speak your word, but I will not
serve. I can see the footprints,
that might lift me up . . .
  
I call you, the unbreakable glass,
you haunt me. With your slow
distortions, with your . . .
   
 
Every bullet shall shine, like Silver
and Gold, shrouded in beauty,
bright gems for our crown . . .
  
Sweet face Jackal, who would kiss
you now. While you hunger, while
your fur is still wet . . .
   
 
Let us cut out this small corner of
the world, and post it to ourselves.
One day we will need to . . .
 
You have slept long enough, the tin
cans will rattle, just like your bones,
full of conclusions . . .
   
 
The archaic beast, up to its hocks
harnessed and hobbled, to the
stuff of the cutting . . .
  
Let Angels prostrate fall, and let no
Angels. Whatever God wants let
Him whisper, let Him grumble . . .
  - . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
     
     
W    R    I    T    I    N    G
W    R    I    T    I    N    G
D A V I D   H A R D I N G
    
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