Saturday, June 22, 2013

A sticky piece of something

What are we doing, mechanising every thing, taking the moments out of every step, those moments that can be held only with fingers knowing that time becomes sticky, a sticky piece of something, then again a flowing collection of drops, silk, it cannot be held, can only be felt, the seconds, minutes, hours within every woven thread that passed through its weaver’s fingers, the touch of warm blood under the skin of a lifetime, a century of lifetimes, what are we doing, mechanising every thing, strangers come, the cold blood of steel imprinting itself, cold heartedly weaving a frozen river around the woman’s neck, she has been touched by steel, has been denied the feel of a heart fallen river, dragonflies whirring, fish, currents, rapids, a blade of grass, now exactly those same fingers touching the green, fingertips breaching water’s surface, somebody close by is taking a swim. What are we doing, mechanising every thing.