...and on the second floor balcony is a piano with a pianoman all wrapped up in mystic fire with an unlit torpedo shaped cigar in his Ghanaian, determined mouth, his skin as black as his heart is red; he is playing for his life, and he is finding it up there. He is Baako, Bluesman they call him... On the microphone is a lady, Serena, copper skinned, hair of ebony rings, with a voice ethereal and as high as a chandelier. She has watery eyes, their ivory whites shaded fuchsia by the purple lights, as is her dress: thobe-like, Mohammadan, angelic.
… She returns her attention to her eschatological essay, then the typewriter vanishes, her surroundings vanish, she is transported, suddenly, as if in a flash without light or sound, with the sudden skip of a body crossing the slender line from life to death… These visions caused by that mystical fog and the charmed Olivetti…
On that moonless mournful morning when the Titanic sank, there were lights seen off the fated ship’s port side. Dim light from northern stars reflecting off their lyres, lambent angels, a hundred of them, hovering above the ice,
the eyes that saw them mistook them for shooting stars, for lantern lights, ship’s lights, strange fiery reflections of sea ice.
Kitty changes the mood. She wastes no time, drawing from the globe that knife that was embedded in it. Then she drives the knife hilt-deep into Dylan’s heart. Dylan’s eye lids spring open, his mouth cries, a gurgled shout. His hands reach for the blade in his heart, seek to draw the blade. Kitty presses down, utters not a word. A moment later, Dylan’s dead, eyes wide open.
“Oooh! It’s the wife!” Sierra breathes, binoculars pressed to her eyes.
The angel has wrapped his body around the beautiful child, and Isabel is whole, unbroken, unmutilated, uninjured, and the sole sight Isabel sees is the white of the angel’s clothes, the ruffling of his mighty pins and feathers, and the welcoming smile upon his face. The angel holds her in his arms.
“What? Who? What’s happening? Who are you?” asks Isabel. “I’m, ah, Isabel.”“I know, Isabel. I’m Thanatos.
We are the most despised of the abhorred
from sea to desert to breathtaking icefjords
looking over the sheer edge of the world…
Petra is standing on the small stage, and with the chaos as a backdrop, she puts her arms out like Christ crucified, and rests her chin on her breast bone: a bomber with bubblegum hair and either a terrorist’s sense of drama or a thespian’s interpretation of terrorism – better you make the call.
Muchas gracias a David Murphy
por la oportunidad de participar en este proyecto.