Birdsong flew out, clearly, sweetly and nothing but melodious delight. In a night of impenetrable blackness the forecoming dawn allowed only a strained green hue to present itself, there, in the hollow. Their eyes round and wet in their sockets, hard beads full of a mocking consciousness or a joy that wants nothing from you and the most beautiful browns, blues and reds go unseen in this most distant of places. Away from a clutch of birds a crow looks out with a would-be anxious look and shifts on a branch, a rough organic grating sound as it does. Clicking and clacking. It too cries out as if only to register its bare existence and who or what hears her? Down below sequestered on an earth cold and turned in on itself, leaves turned crisp, brittle and insects rendered alien by the light go about their impenetrable business. Worms writhe in their own hollowed out veins of earth and behave immortal though death awaits if not with dawn then with dusk. The barren skirt of land surrounding seemed bruised, bitter, secluded away, a recalcitrant witness barring passage. An infinite distance lay between here and that safe realm of glare and noise and further still from the feel of fire almost burning skin.
Screens are magnets. Like an icon held in front of one’s face it deletes the surrounding scenery and becomes an object of devotion. Of time not love. The real. We don’t see anything else. Symptoms may include time dilation. Increased seclusion. A love of darkness.
An apathy for the light.
Prose by Ryan Boyd, photograph by Chris Friel.
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The sky a crucible of ground
to dust charred remains
charcoal and white bone
Dawn a paler ash
on the horizon
A travelling sheik’s tent
seen through desert bushes
It is dark be still
Night is never silent
holy motors divine
wroth flow down lighting all
before them their trace remains
though the sound and fury
just sticks to their tails
birds and cats cry
and sing into blasted out spaces
and you dice with your own shadow
walking on through to take
your seat with a dumb audience
Walk eyes glimpsed shut
in all modern glory
into a disappearing wind
You look at yourself;
does the light hit me?
until it blinds you.
Poem by Ryan Boyd, photographs by Rafael Milani.
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It was forever ago, I was last here
In your flower draped heaven
only to see
mountain tops alight within your eyes
clouds cast the moon, in icy fortress
What befalls the volcanic inferno on your mind
mayhem somersaults over trapezoidal mirrors
as time concerns the boundaries
warping their charcoal energies
seducing fires to tragic deaths
while all the letters of the alphabet
are scrawled within fabled caves
Across the matted manes of kings
that crush man and earth ‘neath
Widowing our very own shadows
to quell the dirt in its everlasting hunger
A thousand auras constraining
an impeccable luminosity,
She is all grace.
Possessing nothing but indifference, selflessness, abandon,
Sat unmoveable witnessing infinity,
The infiniteness within the river,
and its endless ending of moments,
As water passes, always remaining,
If it is possible to touch upon infinity here
she ponders, it must be possible to touch upon eternity within myself
Thousands of coins twinkle on the waters surface,
In that instant, divinity vanishes,
Taking with it, her settled heart.
Will these moments ever remain to remember?
The time when I drowned in fire,
The time when I surfaced like the sun,
Against the depthless blue.
I was held to the cross,
The sand blasted my skin,
Tore at my flesh, my ribs,
Until those moments found the totality of my being,
Existed, by binding to my neverending states of emotion.
Words by Daniel Grant, photographs by Lautaro Garcia
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