Deconstruction of a Symptom
You hear the air lift, breathe. Through loose constructed passageways, condemned as froth and broken children. Described as mirrors.
You hear coordination, retraction in its wake. Acknowledged as a wanderer. Described as absence.
You hear absolution.
You hear the lung fall as orchestrated. Through channels pulsed with brighter gems of obsolete refinery. Described as abundance.
You hear, for simplicity’s sake, the scents of silver dinnerware. Described as lovelessness.
You hear this contemplation, fractured in its marrow, closed off from clinging children. Their hands held down as muddy paws. Described as condescension.
You hear the womb, the buttressing of constellations. Envisaged as the waking dormant clothing, torn about the arms and legs. Described as emptiness.
You hear the nearness of directives, contemplation in the void. Just as enamel forms the border walls, your teeth, this uniform. Described as everything.
You hear the murmur, speak. Described as evangelical. Described as solipsism. Described as closing.
You hear the sound of angels barking. Soliloquy of sunken ships repulsed and overturned in cast off reputation. Described as mercy.
You hear the cymbals screaming. Up and down the hovel streets that sing of better judgment. Contrived to flare the endless tops of endless flowers. Described as coalescence.
You hear the madness in the horn, condemned. Described as openness.
You hear simplicity and sacrilege. Torn apart from preludes. Bathed in vulgar salts. Described as symbolism.
You hear the suturing of apertures. Held well within these starlit streets, with nothing but the thread to join the hands and hips and diaries. Described as fertility.
You hear the shuttering of choirs, silence. Transmuted from the falling leaves to touch the slippered feet of aging deities. Described as confluence.
You hear the braying catch of outstretched gifts. Described as convalescence.
You hear a cough.
You hear these stations. Correct to smell the sulphur as it peppers sparks of ash within the drawing room. Down corridors encamped and left alone. Described as validation.
You hear, and see, the pulling thread. Embarrassed by its weightiness and worthlessness. Condemned to own itself within the soiled crop. Described as selfishness.
Deconstruction of an Absence
You told me of your mercury. Its absence of solidity. As the child plays her harp and sings you sing with her. You sound discordant in the echo, displaying fear of these three houses, all of them connected by a fine and febrile link of string. Anatomical without the presence of arthritic courtesans. She said ‘you, you’
Deconstruction of a Hymn
One is for one hundred.
Two is for the birth.
Three is for illumination.
Soon the rose-coloured eclipse finds its purpose and explodes into the embryonic hall. Crying out with elegance and turmoil and spirit and sound. Simple sound. Simple thought. Simple strike. Simple arithmetic. All of this a constant reminder that the glass is set to bend before it shatters.
Nine is for the thread.
Ten is for the vocalist.
Eleven is for the understanding that nothing and everything is sacred.
Soon it is colonised through molecular reconstruction. Told that love is an abundant thing and cursed to feel and touch and smell and taste and speak. However long this child has been here has been too long. Fashioned as a hotel and a church and a jewel. How often have you come here to shudder your eloquence?
Fifty is for the water.
Fifty-one is for the order.
Fifty-two is for recidivism.
Now see it as a hovel, made of brick and mortar, concrete and stone. How often have you stepped within the confines of this airy prison? Not to say a jail, not to say a place without peace. This is a wartime carrier of cold meats and water. This is a peacetime carrier of emulation and recreation. Constant in its requirements.
One thousand is for the doves.
One thousand and one is for the children.
One thousand and two is for the laying on of hands.
Deconstruction of Inertia
Go on, unlighted
Awash in blemish
Turned over as the child
As sharp as cataract
Told to stop
And not stop
Held in place
Deconstruction of an Answer
Salaam speaks through his writing. Writhing on the cotton thread. Exposed to find his blotter formed to mark repulsive smiles. Styled so they speak with empty teeth. Embalmed within its solitude and sanctity.
Closer to this majesty Salaam speaks without overtures. Centred on the city streets with nothing for a name and nothing on his breast. Just as the hotel holds the water in the well, expelled upon the spoken words.
Well done Salaam, go find your homeland, you have left it in this other space, within the psalm, within the name, within the happenstance.