EN // FR
- a memory
the moon is the moon
is the moon is the moon is
the moon is the moon is
the moon is the moon is the
moon is the moon is the moon
is the moon is the moon
is the moon is the
moon is
to sadia
UP & OVER!
to the stars
breath, as my lungs is
distance to the teal skies
vast deserts
pyramid of skies, breath
is distance is the opening
up of
the world
You said that the stars sparkled
like my eyes
that it was impossible
that they could sparkle the same
But the building is your
body, of course, how
could it not be,
the building is your body.
the moon is the mother
the moon is the mother, the sun
the father, the earth
the child of -
held in space by their
harmonious counter-tensions
the night & the day
the opposite sides of the sky
This is it.
The earth gets deeper
into itself. uncovers the
hurt of the sun, the fierceness
of the moon - the earth lives
Ready to raise the head of the
father & forgive
(the light was not all light, the
fear was not made of night)
the presence of the
living rock, ready to be
reincarnated,
as a star.
october
The fast clear skies of early October
bring with them
winds of memories, lived again
Submerged, you are going under
in tilted cones & balanced triangles
to find the answer.
what is it
about those memories
that causes you so much pain?
Emasculation, or,
the inhuman understanding of shallow friends
Only pain revolves.
There are many other types of pain
Live again,
it comes
it speaks with you,
it asks you questions,
that will be answered if they are not ignored
if your self can bear to look.
you are breaking you have cracked
broken space for
purification
I am made of
what revolves in you
Listen, until the pain subsides
& the beauty of pain takes over
& what revolves forms a sphere
& out of your heart comes
an object twisted a polished to a finish
floating
ii
When I said that October
is about unearthing
you said you agreed
it was like being dug up.
golden chains of black
in the dark shadows of your
extended cheek-bones
each one clipped in links that
reach your forehead &
hang down below your cheeks
the shadow of shapes that move below
the surface
where someone or something,
speaks for you
when I step outside again
in a cloak of mysterious signs
reflected in the sky & the garden
a sexless star
*
in the light of the next waking day
I reorganise the room, slide back
the table
& waiting for me
lying on the floor
are four pumpkin seeds.
Beau W. Beakhouse is a writer/artist in Cardiff. He works with text and video, as well as undertaking installation and residency-based work. He is particularly interested in the spiritual, the metaphysical, the poetic, the radical, the experimental, the avant-garde, in decolonisation & post-coloniality & in deconstruction. @BeauWBeakhouse