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Extracts from David Pollard's patricides
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antoni tàpies
at first
failing to see it quite
for what it is
lacking the vigil of the eye
only the other plays against the light
and terrifies
you see that
neither its signs
nor metaphors
nor symbols
were enough for him
or were too much
an overload he armed himself against
his art to paint it back into the real
transform the actual
back into itself
making it once more
what it was or is
and impossible trick
give it back the weight and context of itself
gather it up and place it exactly
where it already is
not high but this and that
graffiti of the day to day
of dust and sand and blood
of cloth and skin
and of the word
they are now
all of them
just as they are
and where
exactly
< < < < < < < < < < < < < < < < < < - > > > > > > > > > > > > > > > > > > >
cristina
her eyes
upon us all
crossing our paths
in her haphazard
dark and deep
cry their lids down
tearless smiling
tearing the worlds spine
open
masking the frontierof her heart while
waving gently
gently between her smile
and hair
beautiful she was
no is
as is he blown rose
evening ghostly
moving amongst
and distant faintly
waving against the falling fading
and vivid amber of farewells
translucent
under each day by day
and then behind her
lowering
the clarion dark waters
climb to meet the sky
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we draw a circle
we draw a circle
round
he drew
our lives
them out
until
stepping
behind
between
where
no unruly sun
inside that arctic ring
of dust that
inside time
his shadows
slumber
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