Mega-shriek. The siren, siren, siren sounds, larking about the base of a tidal wave. So deep, green-blue, and arching tall. To deliver the death blow. Creeping in a rat's fine, grease-soaked body - with those thin, repulsive bones at work. And distantly - from a rock, sea stone, sand castle - the siren screams, her juke box tossed across a perfect axe. Jerking open the cold throats of masked villains, unmasked. Vulture-winged and proud in black heaven.
Angels recoil. Mad fluttering from the annex. All up and away. It was their soft, passive refusal of a ban set on sweet and lovesick tidings. The coop is bone dry and wintering now. The prose is dense, is bored white, is packing snow. This hard lunar lockdown. I'm suffocating in it. In all the poetic mystery of it. Paused elusive over dim, heavy animal tracks. Spelt "murder" at the sinking warm breast of tidy Virgo.
But to count the rich hills of spring again. To be lodged in that annex again. If the price were set, I'd gladly pay it twice.
It would be my pleasure, or pressure, whatever god-hand makes me move. If those clean palms could pull me. Place me inside the Promise Ring. Where I'll keep the bench warm for whomever. Bring me the Road Block. I'll kill it with my eyes. That crooked old tin-man. Rusted at the joint, with his hard lips sealed shut.
This is a Tate Modern of the mind. The pace of the procession could drive a dead dog to insanity. Gnaw that dumb, yellow bone - but for history's sake, please grind through it faster. Keep towards the satisfying, sticky bits.
Look, see! It was just a simple pastoral painting. A tired landscape in muted colors, lazy hues. And who are you? Haven't I seen you here before? In a vision. Ah, yes! And I tried to kiss you, up on the tin roof. Here above this sullen, grey tree. But you weren't having it, and a rabbit on the run caught your attention, and you were momentarily distracted. It was pure pain, like being slowly impaled upon a gorgeous sword. Without all the gleaming.
But, as all Courage knows, Beuys don't cry.