Text: Ocean City


First the hour. Then the witching woman came.
    Lying depleted, shed, on a bed. In a hotel room guarded by card slot time, not people. In a building of glass and steel, where outside senses are rendered less. On a street of wined whispers, ivy lined innuendo, coffee filtered conversation and terraced terror. In a city seeming sweet and vulnerable yet defensive to the hilt: cornered by drought, threatened by light, armoured within a mushroom cloud of subatomic chaos.

I felt her before I saw her.
    The dust made its way in her cut out shapes. The musk spittled her outline upon my skin. The dusk scuttled shadows of her contours on the liquid walls. The lust of liquor, sweat and scorched tar librettoed her ego. I snuffed her in by increments; thimbled particles of promise.   

But there! Over there. The ocean.
I feel the swell: smell oxygen, taste salt, touch what swims within. She is here. Not there. To be in the ocean of nowhere else: with each who is from somewhere else, each elsewhere in her life of something, pursuing that thing with motion saturated with emotions.

I refuse deserts. Mountains. Forests. Gorges. Lakes.
    My life doesn’t unfurl, cycle, meander, unfold – snail paced. It’s not lived on unpasteurised produce, fresh air, organic moments. I live at a pixellated, digitalised, high octane, carbon dioxide coloured, insatiable image driven pace – where a moment is consumed and next forgotten.

I remember not the names of countries and constellations. Out there.
    But here, in this horizonless city, I know the ocean: electric skeletons show me the way, neon succulents burst me senseless and liquid crystal demagnitises my moral compass.
    In here, Room 703, I sense the ocean: between her legs, in my belly, in the song in the form of a villanelle in my head. In the wave sounds that lash my tongue then pound elsewhere at high speed frequency – breaking light.

I can see.
    Through her eye’s slit, a crescent moon of enigmatic light peeps– halfway between life and exaltation. Entire cities’ civilisations synthesised in the constellation of her face.

In this: the midnight hour.


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  • Anonymous's picture

    22.04.09 — Gretchen Miller

    A distantly remembered

    A distantly remembered ocean... erased by digital living... but remembered through the body of a woman... this is a complex and beautiful piece. i'm not entirely sure i've 'got' what it's about... but the rhythm, pace and imagery are rich and lush.