Archive
forward> Back<
|
|||
The tree grows from the pediment….. The broken dome echoes the dissected skull, the autopsy, exposing the vermiculation of the brain. Minerals accrete, accumulating stalactites on the ceilings of underpasses. Rain drips slowly through concrete. Frost work, pick work, the vocabulary of architecture for artificial ruin an apotropaic gesture, to include within the structure that which destroys it. Half-forgotten words that rot as the buildings do. Made for the tongues of connoisseurs. They crumble; vegetation and mould overtake them, just as those tongues were overtaken. These letters- their forms are perhaps the remnants of some larger structure. Though the arch of “n” is intact, the column of “t” broken, doors and windows stare blankly- framing nothing. The colonnade of “m” runs nowhere now, three orphaned supports still holding their piece of shattered lintel. They sit distinctly, scattered in the empty plaza of the page. A museum, for something; exhibits placed - or left where they fell, as evidence of some catastrophe, preserved for instruction or admonishment. A series of straight avenues remain, running parallel, linked along the other axis by alleyways that wander, broaden, narrow, break off without warning… The broken teeth of a city…..
|
|
||