Saturday, 11 October 2008

her flesh opened up, her mutiny futile.
the rose is not.

what are you doing to me, she says.

the floating. the dark thorns of dreams.

The rose that shouldn't be 
longs to become.


  1. these are like chariscuro still lifes from the 17th century. i read elsewhere that you fancy one of your sould to be baroque...that much atleast is correct, on present evidence...
    the prose goes very well with the pictures too...sensual and scarlet; and, at the risk of sounded like a one-track record, extremely sexy ;-)

  2. "her mutiny futile"

    i will taste this a while.

    is there a rose that shouldn't be? for me, its the longing that is the rose opening unto what it is to become

    love the slanted sense of a room in these, the box of a house so the rose Becomes a she, almost more than a photo of a body... (?)

  3. ah 'what are these roses doing to me?'

    "sensual & scarlet" indeed, certainly not futile! but, hmmm, mutinous, yes :-)

  4. When she loves too much, she brings me flowers.
    Her flowers with thorns stir images of death, pain and beauty inside me.
    Today I will mourn for that beauty which will never be born again.

  5. mansuetude, yes, I think there is. rose that shouldn't be, beauty that shouldn't be, because it kills you.

  6. one track-record, thank you for saying this yourself and thus making my job easier :-P
    really, zuma, not only the hand, but the roses too? :-) I like your description, sensual and scarlet...

  7. fff, dear fff, what are these roses doing to you? :-)

  8. gentle, don't mourn, please. or no, yes, mourn
    In the cave at the tip of the lily
    In some hallways where love's never been
    On a bed where the moon has been sweating
    In a cry filled with footsteps and sand