Page 5 - Waltzing Mathilda

P A T T E R N O N E; C I T Y
I take a room that faces the ocean moonlight on my bed
Perhaps all these memories of reflections, traces and significant dfferences, are just a waste of time,
An inadequate response.
I watch the horizon anxiously
At twilight, a halo lies at the bottom of a deep, circular glacial lake, it reflects the moon.
"In the morning there are lovers in the street
they look so high
you brush against a stranger and you both apologise"
The medieval period, so prominent here, marked the advent of a more or less 'imaginary' bestiary and flora.
I notice (them) rendered on the stone portals of cathedrals and churches, mouse grey like Raphael, and in the parchments of religious and scientific texts.
Each fragment distracts and disorients. Robert Campin, Master of Flemalle, Fragile saints with machine guns,
The Merode Altarpiece.
A complete disregard for scale was often applied to the margins of these manuscripts.
In a side street leading away from the square, a crowd of people is intent on beating someone accused of penis shrinking. There is a wave of penis shrinking and a resultant fear of strangers spreading through the Capital.
Peering through a shop window I recall the legends of Kimono Mountain.These are not explanations but the poetic forms by which such mystery is intrinsically symbolised, resigned to collective memory. A montain of little fishes forms the shops' central display. In them I see patterns of fur reflected in their tiny scales, a native cat, stars and snow...........................................