WATCHING THE LAZY EYELIDS OF THE RAIN ON FRIDAY NIGHT IN PERTH Watching the lazy eyelids of the rain on Friday night in Perth as the pencils of the traffic encompass a glut of rorsach blood spatters on the asphalt sequins of the watersnakes glistening into the gutters of Foster Street. Release, arrival and anticipation of Armageddon on the weekend in a gallery of watercolours that buffs the apocalypse with fire alarms and emergency exits in a riot of poppies lest we forget the grand climacterics of capital. The old winter solstice of Mithras |Tauroctonus. Christmas soon pouring from the wound in the bull. Moon killed by a matador. Plinths of light for swords. Ear of the rose plucked like a single-stemmed tumour and thrown into the upper stands of an appreciative lady. Did Van Gogh ever get it wrong. Roses can’t hear a thing. Even with scalpels and tiger mussels hanging like earrings from the lamp posts in a winner’s circle of haloes and cedar wreaths, it’s still a nick in the oyster of the earlobe to bury a sacred syllable like a jewel in the palm of a prosperous madame with an Arctic cat in brothel. Constant beginner, have you ever in your life come to the end of anything like a crosswalk painted like the Rainbow Bridge across the Tay River, a great arched bow shooting lonely firewalkers off to the stars like flaming arrows of osprey and ladyfingers? It’s a sign. It’s a signal. To begin. What’s left. At the end. PATRICK WHITE
Posted on: Sat, 23 Nov 2013 01:54:27 +0000
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