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.