Poem: MIRROR OF ME

Psycho – Alfred Hitchcock:  Cinematic Still Frame

MIRROR OF ME

George A. Larkins

Reflection of judgment, you mirror me.

Bird eyes penetrating what I was then , glassy, vacant, watching, waiting and not unlike you.

 Always within me, controlling, consuming and devouring all that she has she created.

Your fear stems not from the blade, the slash, the stinging strings.

 Nor the draining dead eye circling black into the murky depths of unknown. The hole of horror inside your soul.

The breaching of some primitive divide is the darkness that sings to you. Rocking and swaying in the way she once held me.

Disruptive spheres of masculine and feminine culminating in psycho-sexual fury. Punishment comes to one who dare stand in her light.

Mirrors of internal conflict trapped within circling shards of the maternal profane. I am within her as she is in me.

Voyeur along in my deed and filth and stupidly assume that you remain unsoiled. For you become the she, the I, in our world of black blood and white terror.

All the while she spreads her inky black stain within the mind you call sane.  There is no resolve, no happy ending to the tale.

Claw at air as you struggle to escape her trap. Her limbs shall enfold you as a vine creeping around your spine. It is Mother who decides that you may not leave or go free.  

A maze with no end, a lock with no key.  She is a mirror of you, She is a mirror of me.

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Poem: OF MOTION

Nude Descending Staircase – Marcel Duchamp

Oil on Canvas

OF MOTION

George A. Larkins

Whirring, spinning at twenty four frames per second.

Trapped in two dimensional form.

A world of speed, a world in motion.

Static form holds no contest.

The brothers cubist struggled in vain.

To push the canvas beyond its limits.

Light and shadow emulating function.

Mechanical periphery.

Once gods that harkened the multitudes.

Now overshadowed by the luminary.

Destined to the musty galleries.

While in plush decorum of darkened hall they gather.

 This new eye. This infernal contraption of of reels and of motion.

 

Beauty Immortal

Jean Leon Gerome – Seated Woman

DIA European Collection – Sculpture


Beauty Immortal

 

Who dare cast thine eyes upon me. Whom is it that enters my sacred hall. It is you again, intruder from the outside. Seeking your refuge from the realm of decay, world of the profane.

How brief is your futile folly. Laughing child, lovers entwined, wizened crone and old fool.  And oh how I pity thee, lovely girls, withering blooms, filled with fleeting vanity.

Thy flesh all too soon to be cast aside and buried in the grime or burnt to grey ash and cast unto the winds.

Dance now while you may, breathe deep. Eat and drink to desired content. Sleep.

Drawn from my eternal stone tomb. Nurtured by my creators loving hands. How he did toil in my attainment.

Now too, he lies bereft of life.

 Each curve to fluid, each contour to sleek. The luminous caresses, warms, invites.  I shall remain, unscathed by time.

Beauty Immortal.