Birth. An impossible impenetrable sensory

           experience with frenetic soundwaves

                      and cold strings. She didn’t want it.

A body, complete with paper lips, jade-blue eyes,

           and a crown of hair. Hypnotised, a ghost

                      in the presence of artworks. She didn’t want it.

Colours and swirls merged with the screech

           of the soundscape, a jumble of life

                      and streets. A woman in a wheelchair.

A saxophonist by a church. A love heart inscribed on a motel wall.

           She wanted none of it. She wanted stillness.

                      Supreme lifted a cigarette from his mouth

and coughed. The tide turned high. Then transmutation

           and black depths. The end,

                      or perhaps the beginning again.