_1215_fine_art_catalogue

Lucy Moss
la.moss@live.com | www.mercurialities@weebly.com
We drop.
Held in gravity’s levity
I forget the ground, forget my feet; bartered
For a little bird heart
Wingbeat heartbeat
Synced with the crank of this
Bird machine
And we were made fearless
Trusting in the stuff we make in breathing
Slamming into walls we make in screaming breaking
Into the house of some
Immaterial architect, who’s trying to slow our fall
But the ride never lasts; we stop,
Get off,
And learn to walk again.
Like a cheap watch, twelve o’clock
And a congregation forms around the burger bars,
the bins
Shedding sweat papers like a second skin
A sour smelling snake or
A hungry paper chain
Wanting back energy spent
In laughing, in screaming
It’s not a place of grace
But there’s beauty in the beast of it
Everyone smelling of candy floss
The burgers, they smell like the bins
But the crowds wane as the light fades
Me and him
We head home to the star park
Walking between the slant of the sun
To a shared tent, sipping a shared coke
Sharing a helix of DNA code,
Now
It’s bed time. What happens in a bed then
With hindsight I should have got a single but
I didn’t know those things about my brother, at
twelve
And feeling guilty that I ever consented
To sleep on a double mattress.
Oh I must have turned the lights off and sang him
onto the rocks
I must have sold my little siren heart
Because now this askless treachery
The sweaty hands of a full grown man
Seek to find those parts of me I never
Knew I had oh
My sweat glands freeze solid beneath my skin spider
crawls under
Shirts
Up the back
Clawing
Pawing
Undoing clasps hands on my
Neck hands on my
Thigh
Hands on my
...
‘What little hands’, 2015
Lucy Moss
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