f(x) – 5th metacarpal; on seeing the x-ray of your broken hand

By | 25 April 2002

at first: the suspension of
disbelief. then, comparison – the compulsion

to equate it, this image's spectral nonsense, with something
else; make it lithographic, reproducible.

and so: try fog taking shape – playing at
art – that night on the way back

from the party when you were drunk, but not
too drunk, and near the sharp

decline of the water's edge
traipsing the gravel road that lined it: the less

populated end of the harbour. that's what it's like. or,
perhaps, the shape and seeming

density of exhaled desire (a sheer
fuel spewing: leaked from

wherever, whatever it is, inside you that
has burst) breathed onto

the windshield in the cramped boudoir of a father's 88
accord. that, on the night when, although you'd deny

it quicker than the split that
was your first time, it's the nervous december

air outside – not you – that does that
to her nipples. yes. these both and more; other

memories, too, share
something – resemblance, congruency – with it,

the cloudy scaffolding they insist is
simply your hand.

but these, however, are the facts: the knuckle – on
the film, in your hand – is displaced:

fractured and away from its normal metacarpal
syntax. and the twinge, the

dull ache: these are instruments of artifice. all
bits or pieces awash in their

respective museums, fleshy or synaptic. broken or
discarded – adrift – in that

sticky – sometimes sweet, sharp – human cocktail.

This entry was posted in 10: LOCATION ASIA-AUSTRALIA and tagged . Bookmark the permalink.

Related work:

  • No Related Posts Found

Comments are closed.