An Elegy for Summer
This is euphoria: the art of painstakingly purging blistered and withered melanin. This is apocalypse: the wait, waiting and waiting for the tear of vapours, of sweat and oil. Summer is judgement season, death and resurrection.
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Creat(iv)e Non Fiction
Our bipolarities start
to make sense like magnet to steel,
gloom to glow,
silence to chaos.
Theories are fast becoming laws,
and, with bated breath,
will be conclusions.
This must be science.
You evoke romanticism
when I utter rationalism.
We are an open concept.
You are a formalist,
I’m a fragmentist.
We are shapes
and colors
and textures.
This must be art.
Our tales have become realities.
We feel
and watch
and laugh
and cling
and inhale
and exhale
and tease
and start
to make sense.
gloom to glow,
silence to chaos.
Theories are fast becoming laws,
and, with bated breath,
will be conclusions.
This must be science.
You evoke romanticism
when I utter rationalism.
We are an open concept.
You are a formalist,
I’m a fragmentist.
We are shapes
and colors
and textures.
This must be art.
Our tales have become realities.
We feel
and watch
and laugh
and cling
and inhale
and exhale
and tease
and start
to make sense.
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