The Strait of Messina is a stretch of water in Italy which is where they think the Greeks believed Scylla and Charybdis lived. And now the name of my forthcoming clothing venture, things change a lot.
Friday, 18 January 2013
Thursday, 17 January 2013
Saturday, 12 January 2013
Children Of Dust
And he turned to the sky and asked the rain to start falling,
Begged the heavens to open,
To come and wash away what he had done.
He imagined that somehow the water would cleanse him,
Pierce the skin and drive right to his soul.
He stirred the mud with his hands and he sobbed as he sculpted an image of himself in the dirt,
He gave it his memories, his dreams and decays,
His burdens and worries and then filled it with pain.
He imagined the flaking, the peeling and shifting,
The crumbling of joints as it started to move,
It's mouth cracking open, like lips in the winter,
An earthen chest heaving as it started to breath.
Gasping and gasping and gasping and gasping,
And gasping for breath just like hearts torn in two by the wind.
He said "Boy, what have you made of me?
I can plainly see that I am you,
Our pulses run in unison and our flesh has been hewn out the same.
But whisper here a moment, dear,
I can't see the good in this, my dear,
I don't feel like me, like us, like you at all.
Thunder clapped and a single raindrop struck the ground.
And then another.
It let out a cry and it clutched at it's chest as it feel to it's knees in the dirt,
The rain was now pounding,
The heavens had opened,
Not a simple reprieve but a curse.
And it screamed "Boy, what have you made of me?
Boy, what have you made of us?
Take a second to think what you have done."
But the boy couldn't answer,
His hands outstretched, trembling,
His teeth set on edge as he fell,
Lay silent, face downwards,
Already a memory, already a story to tell.
The mud man stood and walked away.
Don't look for him,
You won't find him there,
That boy washed away long ago.