Crystal, B

(mystic fooforaw?)

Yellow-bellied tortoise mouths make me mellow, and the ugliness I nightmared about vanished into a silver dew mist. I was crystal again; ten thousand straight lines glittered from the centre of my heart; I talked soft and you heard me ten thousand miles away. My voice made you act, your actions inspired talk, and people listened. The crystal grew from the earth, the force of tectonic shelves creating the transparent simplicity that equals beauty. William of Ockam was searching for diamonds - the clearest kind of simplicity. But we are other kinds of carbon, the messy kind; we want to be diamonds and shiny. And nothing cuts flesh like a diamond; there is nothing so cold and sharp. Now carved words don’t excite us like they used to; it’s got to be colour and light and the touch of the tongue. My poor words have taken to the wind – there is a storm, and we are in it; those words must learn to fly. Oh oh oh where do they land? Implosion and we are in it. Threats and we exalt in it. West becomes east; east, west.

There was StoneHenge, and Crystal, and the bones of men. To Bonehenge, I miss you. One day - I promise - I’ll drop by.

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