| Sophia Argyris |
An Original Sin She withers. Face sinking inwards, eyes falling miles downwards never to rise again in pride. Centuries have beaten simplicity from her, painting bruises in darker greens and blues, an angry ocean of skin. Shame weighs heavy where they bound it to her, across her shoulders, down her back, over thighs, lips, eyes and breasts; it's tangled and matted thickly in her hair, amongst memories of childhood when her body was no burden, when her movements spoke of liberty in abundance, when she had not learnt that time would make her guilty. She swells, curving round womanhood, engulfing us all. November 2007 |
| Copyright 2007 Red Pulp Underground |
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Red Pulp Underground
Lines of Descent We rose early and ran for the sands in the gasping clarity of morning, fled like sea birds, calling, small voices flaring in the silence, marking our existence. I've watched you growing tall since then, honourable and solid, passing sure footed through time, scaling mountains as though they were lilting hills, and standing proud as conquerors at the summit. Dunes spilled under us giving in to the beach where water hurried to us. Seals slipped heavy and slick, round eyed and gazing, into the green; the cry of gulls fell through the wind, wild with freedom and flight. We were as fresh and flushed as the distant sky still waking. I never reached those heights; security, stability. I fell behind searching amongst the seaweed for simplicity and safety, shocked by the sharp angle of the climb ahead, the dizzying expectation of altitude. I lagged, and finally reaching the foothills found only your footprints. November 2007 |
Steady Disintegration Black coffee, green tea, endless conversations tramping round the same subjects; a job sewn together loosely by meetings; spreadsheets blanketing days; hours steadily trudging by my swivel chair; where will this end? My voice croaks, unused; locked down. Banks hang in the background, greedy for my earnings, trembling and chiming like great clocks once a month when they get fed. Time churns, butter- thick and oily; I can't digest this mess; a life too full of artificial colours and preservatives; I feel bloated just looking in shop windows; spending doesn't purge me; unclean; impure; polluted as the planet. I choose not to wear my knowledge like a crown, carry intelligence like a flag, spout fountains of clever talk, pitched high to fly far; angled perfectly to beat the drums of ears into submission; all to prove my worth. Value added. I prefer to burn myself upon a pyre of words kept smouldering eternally; to melt into a lake and lick the solid surfaces at moments I pick strategically; to dissolve intensely, not boil over. November 2007 |
This town is long-gone-grey, built from crusts of another century, dry boned and spare. Colour has drained from shop fronts spilled their blood in the streets; anaemic scenes. Age wells behind net curtains, youth is always called away or left brewing violence from boredom. Sea salt stains the air, washing faces pallid and limp. Abandoned places live like this on Sundays. November 2007 |