I feel the same, observing myself, though I
do not recline in such a
Posture. This is not my voice I write with,
the words do not fall
As they would from my mouth. This is no
more my voice than it is
My face in the mirror, as Venus and I
observe ourselves in face and
Fiction, almost at odds with each other,
which is which? The moon is
A thief, and so is Cupid, who holds the
mirror before her. Robbing
Her of detail. She remains transfixed,
regardless of the lack of accuracy.
Fact is a thief. As are Aion, Apollo, and
Averruncus, Concordia, Cupid, and
Cura. We are all liars, all of us who teach
you truth. Blow, wind! Come,
Wrack! This scene is too still for such
fury. Too enamored with fixing
A moment as an object, regardless of
veracity. The Parcae put me here
And know when the thread will be cut. What
of you, Venus, who has
Already outlived us all? When will your
time come? When will your
Paint melt from the canvas? When will you
go up in flames? It would
Not be so were this a mirror, as the one I
write before is. I observe
Myself, and you observe me, from your
painting, from my skin and
Reality, from eons apart, from paint and
blood, from time, receding
Like a hairline in a looking glass. These
are two times placed together
Venus: reclining in her bed, looking in the
glass, her modern hair
Aphrodite: Made of stone (not pictured) the
precursor of it all
In Athens, which I flee from late in this
night, unable to stop my
Mouth moving as I howl, beast that I have
become. Misanthrope.
I do not care anymore, but in convex it
rips out my heart and uses
My heartstrings to hang me from a tree in
the wilds, so far from
The perfumed silk sheets of Venus. There is
no reality in that mirror.
There is nothing of truth in any of this,
which is of poet or painter.
Even the camera and the mirror lie. It is
optically incorrect. It is
A mental haze. What needs the goddess of
love for a mirror? What
Needs the beast for a pen? I drone on,
repeating these words written
By a dead man, unsure if he ever saw them
performed alive
Thinking all the while of how I am told it
is unfinished. It does not
Seem unfinished to me. In the still night,
lit by torch, we crawl out
In the wilderness, our words as our paws,
the weight of our
Bodies cracking the mirrors that line the
ground paving the way
To the cave and a cluster of gold. I can
almost see my wild face
Reflected in a coin, as I drink my
rainwater and gnash at my root. I can
Almost see Venus reflected in the painting,
if I ignore the imperfections.
Joe Howse
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