FRANKENSTEIN

FRANKENSTEIN



Holes built, the trenches wait, not a glass coffin but a solid box of facts. I lower it, in the waters tinged with pristine hatred and create him-the scientist, of numbers and reason. He had a world in his head, of threads and black-purple shades, merging to form a picture in otherwise vacuum. I waited, squatted on his side as he woke, a cruel gift embedded in him-Mary Shelly's fantasy. I watch him walk and move into me, with an ease no other man can afford. I completed the story for her today; watch her turn in her grave, her grey, tattered white gown rustling in the wind brushing against my dead ears attached to a mind full of open doors. He swims around in my stomach, killing me, I let out a hollow scream. I drown him-paracetemol poison for his naughty self. He swims and then dissolves, his gift now mine and armed I walk into words that no words could ever be, into a realm tried so hard to be embedded in words of undue importance. And the doors open, I let them fly in, processing-me the machine, with a carrions gift. They were theirs, now mine-I let them in and they haunt me, eyes closed I see them murder me. They wake, give birth and walk in, again and again, chaos-unknown and surprising. I sing myself-us-to sleep.

Close our eyes, to the octopus unbound. Close our eyes to the octopus unbound.

CARCASS

CARCASS


"You don't like me anymore?" She asked him, the one in the shadows where he always was; not because he was scared; he was fragile or just did not belong in sunlight. She was walking out of the doors of her half-light world when she asked; suddenly not sure it was good to do it. He stands back, in ease, in chaos that he draws and calls peace. Her yellow lace turn back to grey, her whites again walking back to colliding dust and covers, he was an illusion and always will be for her, but still "You don't like me anymore?" He draws for her, on her palm, words, more of them, tickling her, then he smiles-happy? Content? No, the drawings lie; he can't. She loves him even more, desperately. It matters now, wounds do no heal on her, and he cuts her, his nail now digging in her palm. He walks back, into the dark, she wounded as the dust comes back to cover. Mother would not let her child die.

He was a shadow and will never stop being one; she was already afraid of the paper walls building on him in purpose.


Am trying to develop photographs without much success. Need to find some articles (or books) on it. Any help is welcome.