Friday, 14 September 2007

• DSL Garden / KGAF '07

  The garden reeks of piss -
  an acrid, offensive stench.

  I doubt the wet earth beneath my feet.
  I wonder where all those mosquitoes breed.

  Among the aged trees, roots bared,
  are millions of white plastic chairs.

  So removed they are from the reality
  that the garden espouses.

  How does one become intimate with them?
  How does one believe

  that the people floating to their rest are real?

  These people trapped in the white plastic chairs.
  Do they feel?

  Surely, it is an other worldly affair I am privy to.

   

  And yet, there she flits.

  A spirit, a fairy,
  a goddess, even, she is,

  here in the humble garb of the tangible
  and, therefore,
  the tantalising, the available.

  But she is not; she cannot be.

  Her disarming flight
  among us unsuspecting mortals
  gives her away.

  At arms distance, always,
  she is part of us.

  She belongs to us

  as we, we all,
  belong to her.

  In one corner of her fingernail,
  we live

  and in the curve of her ample navel,
  the world.

  And when she walks away,
  life follows
  her unbound, primitive pace.

   

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