Black Stones

Black stones. All the world's sentences. Thereafter, black stones, once again. Nudging beside the parking-zone, a scene-zone. The black stones give a little sitting-space to you. Fame's cameras wandering everywhere. One or two branches picked up here and there in a lilting movement of lips. The red ants of absolute stasis start inching inside the poor old mind. The black stones stretch their wings. A broken pot, torn graves and dust-stones over black stones. The tree buzzes. The falling leaves write gibberish on the yard surrounded by corpses of children all around. The black stones open their eyes underneath humiliation. They send dark letters of indulgence in the unwritable chasms on both sides, soon to turn into marbles of structured feeling on the wall.

I will have to return to the glitter. Thus moves the torso. I get up. The black stones hold on...cling on. Slow holds fade behind the circular curtains of the witch. Little fizzles and a bit of divine purgation.

"It's closing time..."

Two hard nipples appear on the surface of the black stones, like erect pupils of light. All my sentences get filtered, tweaked and dissolved in their gravitational pull.

Black stones.

All the sentences of the world.

Thereafter, blank white page, once again.

(Park Street Cemetery, 11.2.2011, 1-50 p.m.)