Tread a frail path ghostly.

Pick at the single string to create a strident hum setting the edge to teeth and tear to eye. Paste a chemical smell over this; stinking killing disinfectants sucking life and colour out of desperation.. Fluid and base solid compete with the flow, damning the light and retching rainbow sludge over displaced industrial waste.
Children sit in slapping boot and threadbare large knitted, repaired, sown and hand me down. Wipe nose in blood from fighting and snot from crying despair.
Corrugated and gun grey, back street. Thin alley ginnel pooling urine yellow light from steaming red brick surrounded machines. Sprays of black water, sucked sudden with burnt dust from various hells.
Mechanical idiot idols standing giant ribbed and rusted guard. Spray legged positioned over holes to nowhere and nothing. Gusts of halitosis devilry emerging into belching wet lung air. Steam dirt and fear. Light less and postwar grey.
Men emerge from tired black cages. Black in their own parts, old blood black, as tired as the seventh hell they come from. Sons and sons, dying slowly, in blank poor lit blackness. Turning to the end of shift light. Coming back to thankful brief surface life and a forgetting for a while. Deep vein sweat congealed on contact with steamy driven air. Children watching the despondent future and what it holds.
Completely nude men, wearing white skin underwear wash themselves in gun grey cold iron baths. Kitchen fires drying the muck from tattooed Mother arms and scarred white pale once rickets legs along with this weeks washing scrubbed in the used bath water.
Thin wife women called to the holy stained glass saviour saints on Sabbaths. The nearer my Eros to thee, watching the calm, always white faces of angels in glass and marble. The precious seat nearest to the big marble, erected to the memory of this Alderman by his ever loving family. Sileo in Eternus pacis. Known for his good works for the grateful people of this parish. The day thou gavest Lord has been one day nearer the death, thankfully. Come down from the mountain and wish for a rest in peace stone in the start of industry’s revolution valley.
Once were wonders. Once was light. Lights were clear and sounds could be heard. When laughing made that suited none but all. Was this the golden time of living loving? When God was near and could be heard in the dreams of falling waters. Was there wonder in a simple death? Was it felt by all, after a beauty lit in a misty fecundity? When your sons and daughters. Was this your Albion? Was it then your green and pleasant land? Was all that was good builded here? Before…

Tread a frail path ghostly.

Kenart

Joined January 2008

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Artist's Description

A Confouded letter from memory.

Artwork Comments

  • Cosimo Piro
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