Frostbitten Thoughts Sitting at the table, before a frosty chessboard, my kindest memories and thoughts sit in a
cup beside me filling the room with a calming aroma of coffee. Incense burning a deep cherry scent, its smoke calmly dances across the room caressing the windows glass. Small snowflakes gather, pressing themselves against the other side of the glass, as if daring their fate to meet the warmth of the smoke. But the dainty little snowflakes refuse to melt behind the thin veil of glass and the cherry smoke continues its dance happily. The shadows lengthen, and the room grows dark, my memories and thoughts turn cold. The smoke ceases its dance and the snowflakes stuck upon the glass are left alone, joyless, in mourning. Silently, the dark sky breaks, blushing deep red under a blanket of clouds. Gently, the sky begins to sing her song. A low rumbling lullaby to comfort the blanketed ground below.
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On “This Silent World” by Kay SageYou were a poor man, who
knew but a little, until suddenly, you knew more than Adam. Did that knowledge burst like umbrellas or fester like mushrooms in secret places? When you stumbled out four days later, into this silent world, were you astonished or yawning after a little sleep? Did the world yawn with you, rocks like teeth, the ground a shudder-grey? I go to that place. I choose it. Black like the insides of eyelids, black like dirt under fingernails, black like recalling a dream too late, the color of slipping. Did you see me there? We lived and died about two thousand years apart, but did you know no life, no narrative is a straight line, especially those who choose bullets for punctuation? Did you learn geometry in school? You probably didn’t go. I made rays first, then paintings, going right to left. I have no note for you, only notes for the end of useless light. But, fellow tomb-dweller, while you were in the blackened place, did you hear my song? O Lazarus, I have questions and answers for you too I haven't come back yet but when I do You'll all go shadow-waltzing in your Sunday blues MoonsetI never saw a bomb blast
rewind into its casing, circle of flame squeezing down the chimney of a brick house atop the near hill like a resin, liquid motion. This moon is not my moon, orange & fluid, self-erasing. It has places to go before the sun comes up, while I have this step to sit on, staring at dim space where a fire went out. Edward Lee is an artist and writer from Ireland. His paintings and photography have been exhibited widely, while his poetry, short stories, non-fiction have been published in magazines in Ireland, England and America, including The Stinging Fly, Skylight 47, Acumen and Smiths Knoll. He is currently working on two photography collections: 'Lying Down With The Dead' and 'There Is A Beauty In Broken Things'.
He also makes musical noise under the names Ayahuasca Collective, Orson Carroll, Lego Figures Fighting, and Pale Blond Boy. His blog/website can be found at https://edwardmlee.wordpress.com You'll BeYou’ll be, to me
a knowledgeable cledonist as inseparable as a sly aspirator and an heedful respirator like an ogress in my nightmares an orchestra in my dreams a dreamlike twinning every time You’re by my side but you love the kingdom of truth the spacing lived by the Concrete expiry dates for interior finishing and punctually forget how castrating it can be to see in the gut of a ceiling just some wooden planks, nothing else and not a starry night in the Amazon of when, finally barefoot we’re warmly embracing our exoticism it isn’t usually like that that I’m use to placing the accents over my heart |
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