Evil Village

A fracture within the image
was enough to change her syntax on Thursday
Mother, who carried her voice across rivers and clay,
found a composition of truths each detailing and shaping into an image

This pictorial eye lay upon the banks of the river
Carrying the reverberations of her echoes
stationery from a distance,
slightly ebbing with the rhythm of life that the water housed
the image lay representing itself as witness

The river and its bed had scarred this record with filth,
reminiscent of the other, entombing the contours
Framing so elegantly, the horror of three nights
The fourth day at amber
just at the edge,
the puncture of weather is visible
the image has resorted to the necro,
of death,
slowly, it gains a new stature
on all fours you pick it up
To find four bodies being held together

A mythology of desperation to become into being


Intimately wrapped within the doorways 
between those who breathe life into materials and those who seek to take life
The alley has the bruising of millennia; narratives, spoken or written
executed into the foundations of the walls 
as they press against the anatomy
of our debt, our bodies and our mother tongues
a melody of late afternoon dancing
within the streets,
the spaces carved
between materials, hope and revelry

A glimpse breaks your gaze
Lying across, broken,
defying the manner of a fallen soldier,
at the entrance to your neighbour
A familiar image
A familial image

The image stares back,
catching it across the alley
it stands in solidarity with the wall,
An architectural simile,
a thousand pixels greet your childhood on the farm
the land being the border to a topographical flesh

The sunrise wailings of the matriarchs in their houses.
Rooms occupied by minor through to spirit
flat the features of the chambers
that became thrones
for the sun would illuminate these,
Your neighbours livelihood, directly opposite
an architecture so considered and built.

Haze entered the conversations, a sudden screen of debris,
fragments of walls fell into our courtyard
alongside remnants of their domestic life

Father, with his diurnal visions,
looked up to find our former neighbours
mimicking the broken walls
Language is silent, mother would say


As familiar as the streets appeared,
at night they took on the contortions of melancholia,
half-merged with a saturnalia
born underneath like the children
who populate the interior chambers
of rest at this moment

Buildings uttering the rotations of the lived
Scarring the architectural relics
with a signature of three nights of pogroms
The facades became
daily utterances, 
daily prayers of bullets,
daily beatings

Opiates flooded the crevices within the pathways
built to move our bodies
across this new Babylon
watching as voyeur, passive spectator, witness,
recall how the street became a flood of

Buildings, bodies and the scarcity that exists in-between
All hold witness to machetes, scars and tape
maybe to piece together a wall or worse a limb

Impress a sensation of pace and rhythm
And this limb is thrown off its host with an efficiency 
Unknown to the surgical relics that line the streets
To reveal sites of the hidden interiors


A phantom lexicon, one would wish,
for the optics that shaped the production of images
The images that populate the desk where you sit
breathe alluvial connections between a familial geology
connections that travel with you and through you
the soil or soul of it all,
gently swaying back and fourth through the small shibboleth created by the shutters,
Light enters, wounding this eternal dwelling of thought


Fifty years of rain at dusk, suffocating the wheat
Trace the contours of the monsoon
Onto the scars on Fathers back
Remember the sensation of his fist upon
Your childhood and mother’s smile
As gravity and solace
Follow the veins out onto the streets to find
The imprints that are scattered as wounds on the village collating a record of violence

Build an etymological understanding of the word ‘violence’
To tell others how 
Those feral beasts that roam the land are made of us


The moment in a day
When a phones ring
Leaves a subterranean cavern
In your daily ritual
To call fourth those above
As gospel
To use voices to move
Our sculptural tomes
Across these lands


A broken chair lies near the doorway to the courtyard
its woven skin, torn by the front spindle
near the ruins of this monument to the seated
a bag, used throughout the global south
conceals a hard drive containing personal biologies

Biologies that are severed
within the land, mother sang
harmonising her hymn
with love that greets
the spectacle of moonlight
piercing the gated window
burning a pattern of time
passed onto the corporeal

Nocturnal hallucinations aside,
the contents of the hard drive were as follows;
Contemplate the links between these states


Elegies for the shadows
Cast by the bird
Perched as chorus to judge
And execute the beginnings
Of night
Walls built alongside
The fading fires
As we place all images
To be buried with the cremated

This house lies, this house is tethered and bound to the co-ordinates
of the destitute
and the radical purveyors of the future