Re: Syndicate: Balkans/Dying Bird +? ne+ne

[integer@www.god-emil.dk]

>A poem I did a while back, still relevant... 
>
>BALKANS/DYING BIRD
>
>As the wind stretches
>It yawns
>Across broken lands
>It brushes over lost bodies
>Disparate and battered
>Blown, scattered into that state of timeless disposability
>
>Who knows how much human body waste
>The wind has witnessed
>As histories soul bleachers
>Educators of the singular
>Create yet another bombast, carnage path
>For others to unwillingly adhere to
>
>This wind
>Part of the nature scene
>Has seen
>Too many things
>If only it could blow away all the pains,
>Cleanse this shabby place 
>Of places
>
>It blows through, above and over 
>Not able, unable to change what is blown apart
>A crumpled psyche
>In a world dissected by mythology, dreams and ideals
>Tired inventions and pretensions of what could be
>And some have been too willing to be
>What they cannot be
>
>Croatia is a dying bird
>
>Us, the other birds
>Watch...
>Flapping around hovering in the wind
>Waiting to see which way the wind will blow
>All birds are mortal
>Waiting for the drop
>
>Short of breath
>Short of sky
>The creature could do nothing but cry
>As days passed
>
>The beak would peck at the glass
>Trying to peck through the window,
>Wanting to escape the trap
>It yearned for flight once more
>
>Others
>Outside
>Flew by
>Looking in
>
>Unable to break the spell of what was cast
>It's wing flapping hitting out
>In frustration, crazed
>
>Morals come and go
>Yet we will never know
>Why we waste our time
>Creating each one of them
>
>Shadows collude
>And move around this place
>As night cloaks the scenery
>In here
>As the feathered martyr rests
>Slightly jittering
>Holding onto
>The last embrace
>
>Time grinds on
>Leaving the dead behind
>To become mere memories
>As life rushes ever onwards around it
>
>The bombing has paused.......
>Here lies a dying woman
>Not just a woman
>But a woman who knows the wrath of insecure masculinity
>
>She thinks......
>Are we all merely
>Headless lost creatures?
>
>Here I lie
>One leg less 
>And many dreams less
>
>If only the tears 
>That which I churn
>Could fill the gap blown asunder
>
>Are we tomorrow's ghosts
>Laying down snares
>For future lives?
>
>Dead is gone
>Lost is not found
>End is - finish
>
>And the wind
>It blows
>It moans
>It stretches it's invisible limbs
>Across the battered land
>
>Oh surely there's  hope
>Once we've realized, loss of hope
>
>But still the bird is trapped
>Caught between non reason and hope
>Dangling on the gropesome
>X mark's the spot
>Mapped out, worn out
>And the wind?
>It still  blows.....
>
>
>                                                 
>M.Garrett  97
>http://www.furtherfield.org




i am a bird, a small grey-brown and non-descript
bird. one of my wings is damaged. i am
waiting, or have been forever sitting, in
a large flowered tree, of which kind spans 
the southern island.
there is a girl, she is you, sitting
below watching insects playing, telling
stories to them, cataloguing the dancing
of the crickets. i fall in love with her instantly.
the wind rises from the sea and sends
warm salt air towards us.
as she is intently absorbed with her task
i softly beat my one able wing
against a branch causing thousands of
thin dark red petals below. she glances up,
unable to see the cause through the thick drift
of petals. she rises, and as she does so there
is an enchanting sound of whirring, of
many, many tiny clicks. it is her dress,
forever sewn into the earth, the large skirt
is constructed of the softest grass and flowers,
living and changing as she moves across
the ground. the insects move with her -
an uncountable number - they work so
very quickly that as she takes each step her
gown is reworked into the earth, the roots
uplifted and the living bodies contained
within surviving in eternal cycles.
as the drift of petals lessens, she smiles
at the bird atop a tall majestic tree,
and to offer her my love i let forth a song
i had kept close to me, a resonance which
folds and floats with the wind among
the clouds. she whispers and the tree lowers itself, 
bringing me to ground. the spindle leaves inter twine
with her dress, i can hear her soft breath.
she tells me she cannot heal that which
must remain broken, for she is merely a girl.
however should i care to join her, and return
with her to her garden, she will listen to
me sing every morning, and every evening.


what do u think? can stories die?









                                           pre.konssept!?n  
                                                 meeTz ver!f1kat!?n.     
 
 
 
 -
 
 Netochka Nezvanova     -  amf!teatre de l.eternelle sap!ensz
 f3.MASCHIN3NKUNST 
 @www.eusocial.com
 17.hzV.tRL.478
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