PROJECTS

THE WRITTEN IMAGE

Dead Link

Down by the edge of a down town and a second millennium, in his flannel trousers and a head full of pain he headed in the wrong direction. His name was hard to pronounce and his looks were likewise. The wet from the sweat drenched his heart but it still wasn't enough to keep the demons away; times took him where he was told not to enter; those places that one has already left.

In another part of a town and the world, she lifted her head to a soft wind, gentle hair black against a night and her shoulders, she let go a gaze that pierced his heart.

The night brushes against the brick, footsteps lay across the valleys like lead. In a miracle someone catches a glimpse in a red road of dust upon his heals, and he turns up in the ceremony, and someone says, " hey cowboy, is that red around your throat", and stretches off into the distance backwards.

She sees the brick laced in night and yellow faces crowded in sacred places, quiet hiding across terrains of mad beliefs and terrible sadness, the silence enters her web like the brick.

His voice is gentle as it reaches a window on the silver side of town, " that's the way to the other side", city centres blocked with heaven from a black book on the crest of dawn.

When he awakes she's dreamin' he's leavin', comin soon, and carries water from a secret well in flesh of silk and satin and draws him to her breast.

The day spreads itself out like time does when it's twisted around a bend. From the corners of hallucinations to transparent-dust-forming-dreams, sacred air from the otherside, the neons dangle off the brick.

In the trail his mouth is on fire, "Hey cowboy, you comin' out here", the tracks are torn of grime and greed, the shadow of the nite, she whispers in some ancient lore,

"(rush of wind a half an earth apart)".

On the street to ecstasy under construction, signs rustling in the wind, crows cawing over splattered glass, the pavement livin' the life in the underground, the kid shufflin' thru a long turn out.

In the backwoods by the turn of a century some magic tree is walking towards them, "you will meet again, this earth is your saviour", the wind clutches clouds, hurls rain, time and them far apart. Destiny plays fate to the crow, black hair in sea-wind blowing thru space where time is dead, truth laid out like the brick spread out against the alley.

The scent of her golden skin, from the glow of a million moons, whispers in the silence of the earth beneath his feet. Patience falls soft in a gentle rain, two crows sit huddled in a tree blowing across a horizon in a dream.

The day cracks open and the trail reaches out towards the other side. In the room there is new furniture from another part of history. The window sees thru the wall. The love, once so soft, hard against the brick, dangles medicine from his neck. In the end, sage brush smiles to the wind, the sea is wild inside calm upon the earth and two strangers touch.

There is another day waiting in the streets from Shanghai. New York is sinking and the drum is rolling across the plains. He speaks into the machine, her keypad stretches across the wire but the link's dead.

In an afternoon across the street by the edge of the park, sun glistening off the air, their eyes meet between light years and a million worlds.

 

words/images patrick wey