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Array
(
[sid] => 134662
[catid] => 1
[aid] => mick
[title] => Luna's Red Star
[time] => 2007-05-24 10:37:01
[hometext] => For Caitlin-Happy Birthday. *Smiles*.
[bodytext] => The citadel of your daughter's imagination is a treehouse stuccoed around a gargantuan evergreen that spills a cool black round of air and earth large as a circus marquis. Do you see it through the same windows as luna I wonder? A wisened Behemoth that may stroll in the hour of hecate's incantations, Spatially flawless as brocolli and where shrieks on the wings of wraiths drop out of the gloaming's Aubergine and faint stars to crackle in spaces dark and green, indescernible? For her it is an enigma, vesper tine's Brothers Grimm. May some things keep so. May some things perish only in the way of sound. For two days, fist over fist and hour over hour from pink horizon to pink horizon I Iaboured to mend the citadel For Luna's birthday; limewashing, extracting rubiginous nails bent as sevens, sanding out potential needles, replacing water-warped planks with inner kernels rotted to sponge, granulated coffee, Mushroomy odours. And your little Luna was there, watching me like television, your little doppleganger with hair and eyes not quite black like that exotic wood carved into Elephants and extinction, everything yours, bringing me something carbonated and raspberry at Midday. As always, she had her Glass Red Star in her hand. You said you have no idea where she got it. One day it was simply there, like a cobweb. She says she cannot remember. Her Fit had turned the nighbour's windows yellow as butter the night she thought it lost, before you found it somewhere too obvious to be anything less than obscure. For her it is an icon of something secret, liturgical. May some things keep so. May some things perish only in the way of sound. The afternoon of a citadel's completion you shed some salt, not having anything to pay me, even, for materials. No penny or a million would have had the same value. Your kiss among the black balloons and cardboard-cut silver moons was ample, thankyou. We sat on the steps of Luna's citadel until the constellations. "The stars", you said, " Were once red. Their colour faded With the accumulation of years". May some things keep so. May some things perish only in the way of sound. I was there for Luna's Birthday party. As always, she had her red star in her palm. I stayed into the night to help clean up the aftermath of two dozen six year old's energies- a literal detritus of mercurial streamers, canary yellow ribbons, paper cups of blue mill-fluer print, the rainbow chaos of parades, burst pinnates. I sat on the steps of the citadel with luna until the constellations. she asked, "Why are the stars red"? I looked up at a million pure zircons, said nothing. And luna as always, with the red fraction of a pleiade in her palm. She says she cannot remember where she found it. You say you have no idea where it came from. But I know, I know. Some things keep so. Some things perish only in the way of sound. [comments] => 1 [counter] => 158 [topic] => 31 [informant] => Neo-theatre [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 5 [ratings] => 1 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => StoryPoetry )
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