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       - 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


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 
         as a star. 


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 

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



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

 EN // FR