Matt Richard – At Home

A soft image


I’m sitting on a large concrete structure. The water is passing beneath. Boats on

the river. Cold. Rain. My clothes are drenched. The book of moving images wrinkl-

ed and torn. A pen wagging across. Pools extending in cryptic limblike fractal a-


I feel the wind cutting through the hairs on my head. The distant sound of a sub-

way screaming shrill in the wind. My sunken eyes blackened from sleepless night.

The sun rises buffered by he clouds and poised in columns by the breaking white.

My body aches. Half forgotten visions tear at memory blocks and fragment into i-

ridescent spirals framing the banks of sand and starving grass. Planted raising

silver rain-wheels into the air collapsing the skyline in with gentle pulses. A

green eye sheds a tear falling exploding on my skin burning holes with the scen-

t of ozone, soot and ironic blood.

A bright yellow and purple sail passes beneath a bridge graffitied with thought-

form envelopes. An elegant display of unfolding chaos. Drowning to bone in dept-

hs and shades. Content as a gargoyle adorning a civic edifice watching the rain

soak into the pores of the transmundane.

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