Light is his game and colour
is his object, abjection and absolution. Falsely it hangs
whilst on other days he ignores, ignores, ignores (laughing).
It plays the games, fooling us all, including you (denial is no solution)
and those in the sky from where it falls, locked tight in places incomprehensible.
I’d like to roam on cliff tops, edges, ragged like my sense of purpose
and understanding, but at least I try. We must let it play, play out, play on,
play for them and for the others, the game of transformation, of altering
the frame. To alter is to break, or should be, in this sense, abjectly and absolutely.
Free them now, as they should be. I’m not mentioning rainbows, though
you may recall rainbows, now and after the words end. Their creator knows, ours unknowing
but still so fucking far away, mocking from underground, from nebulae, from inside.
Let’s fucking see what happens when we unlock those places, let it land, unlock the innards
and fall to our knees.
