It’s significant; the eyeless marble white statue of Homer was in my bed last night.
I woke up, and I was his statue, plying a saxophone in the street.
The search for his eyes began by cutting shapes out of the wind and burning the wind in an oven until a baby appeared.
I am that baby, I cannot talk or see now until you snap a shaft of sunlight out of the sky and pierce my heart with it.
It’s definite, that poet gypsy had stolen me with promises of healing, and I wander down a wind tunnel in the clouds like a flaming white horse.
The quest now centres on the sin of Adam that burns in my liver like a flaming heart.
This great blot on my spirit is as ripe as an exploding apple filled with crude oil and has a life of its own, and has lived longer than I have.
I see the words of man disappear into a whirlwind in the sky wherein a stranger appears to be eating every word ever said by the whole of humanity; words that have been, and words that will be – devoured.
A red carpet appears at my right side and I fall. The blood red miasma of a stranger kind of love, sweet as the nectar of wild flowers, clings to my side.
