I dreamt of a Catherine-wheel inside an aeroplane. I could see it in the sky, in the arc of open (above the tracks and the footbridge) from where I was sitting on the platform at the station.
I watched the kite-tails, ribbons, flicking and curling and spinning around the planes’ round body in screams – blue and red and choking and caught in a boil of grey, dark smoke. The silhouette of the wings and the tail-boned angle stayed solid, while winding the restless momentum of the tense push of the wheel
It was wrapping the thick body of the plane, with spitting, whirling (wiring) (fire) bladed coloured flames | enamelflickered, flavoured, distant dazzle of heat, undulating, vaulting | were the dark clouds silent, or spinning- |
a wrapping – a wheel of repeating splinters and running, looping, frightening explosions, disappearing underneath the roundness of the horizonand then re-surfacing, still alight and getting closer.
On the platform I am sick quiet.
J, M (brother and sister) are sitting beside me, looking up towards the sky, the aeroplane and the Catherine-wheel. They are as calm and conferring as they were the day that Grandpa died.
I see the outline of (M) her forehead and soft nose, and in-dip of her neck. Lips closed, she hums an answer.
We look at the plane spiraling closer, rounding towards usglinting, spitting, throttling
notching, reeling outwards
Scoring | engraving a shallow line into an arc, or a mark, a pillar. It is sandy, dusty stone leaving powdery rubbings. The anchors are steel, they arch. This is a frame onto which a sculpture will grow. There are four stumps in the ground, hooked onto a polished, light exhibition floor. The nib of each stump is buttoned with this grainy, engraveable stone | concrete grains onto which we draw a diagonal slice like the head of a nail. A little indent to grasp something’s hold, to mark the place where we will drill or push. From these points, higher, grown now- we reel a silk length which gathers in crease lines, widening and lowing like a hung, looping necklace. Thin as tights, dusted with a sand which settles: impermanent, undisturbed, colouring an impression of bark. The stumps rise like fists pushing upwards from underneath the fabric. These we round and blush with dull powdered paint into solid hydrangea heads. Gluey-puce thick colour, fallen thin as the pink sky. Fragile as speckles on dry paper un-tipped, black as nests, glistening like strung torches, stretched and then loose, like taut and then slackened hair.
Sleeping On The Train.
powder-dark eyesyour neck falls as
though from a string, too exhausted to support it.
Your arms wrap your ribs and
your hands tuck into
arm crevice folds.
Your curls reach your wrists
your knees still
your shoes, outstretched, flicker.
The stop of the train weeps to wake you
but then your breath
tumbles back to the wall
of the carriage
and you glance back into focus in my window,
where the background of the black glass is dark fields.
(While) you pale away again at each lit station
‘Where are you heading- shall I wake you’, I say
‘I’m safely awake’ you say.
But your lip lifts again
your neck sways
your eyebrows dream upwards.
your fingers hurry to your telephone
you lean to catch the name on the drowned station signs.