Wednesday, 11 February 2015

Hello Neverland: After Marlene


The walls washed themselves with blues, the constellation on his head like a thumbprint of the universe. Here, the mothers unseen brought their children to absorb, to make themselves an anchor where there is something beyond anthropomorphic talking farmyard animals. The women in sensible raincoats wearing their age on
their chins, glittered at the sight of warnings pornographic, hoping to see themselves supple in bodies stalled by paint.

A room full of men, millimetres deep, with a tunnel of learning behind them. No bodies to preen, intellect remaining their one constant legacy and these are the men we do not put on the covers of magazines to celebrate our greatness. We have taken out the intellect and replaced with a jockstrap warmed by oil and a thousand fervent longings. Replaced by month, face unimportant.

Amy had it down to the blues, and her scars were lined in black, her cross of tears. In another place, another string from Phil, who wore his battles on his head and dreamed of his father. The princess forever restrained, after death considered next to the supermodel who had more than legs to give and could never be queen, for ebony is too exotic for the throne room of Buckingham.

A touch to the outcasts, who make me dream of the face that could be something beyond the generic form of beauty. We could all slide of the page, sleeping through the surfaces of grains hoping to be forever liquid. She saw it on the printed page, handed down like a secret entrance to the rest of the world, divided in her home and thinking about Miss Universe.

Nobody ever told you what it meant to be a boy this way, that you could feel the weight of your own body with all its shapes and find yourself in the precious, in the holiness, in the scream of Pasolini's Mamma. To hook that to the feet that stride in thought through the hallways, carved by thighs like mountains eternal.

The silence, the warm grooves of the wooden benches while people think. The quietness of the day, wrapped in grey cotton and singing testament to the buildings of Empire across the river. This is the day your art bleeds for you, and you promise much to do the same.

At The Tate, 2015.

No comments:

Post a Comment