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David Gibson

of

Grantham, England, UK

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djg6@ukc.ac.uk (David Gibson )


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Her Space

by

David Gibson

Her space is the safe solitude I can join,
It is her surface and her within.
It is the vessel for all that she is, her thoughts, her fears,
and her peace.

Inside her space a warm wind blows
Gently gathering sand in between the arches and corridors
Drying out the damp corners so her presence can consume the emptiness.

It is a place that does not exist, empty and hot
Built of pale stone that echoes in silence.
The walls gently pulsate with her breath,
and the light fades and returns with the beating of her heart

Inside her space there are no shadows or blemishes,
No patterns or innovations in the soft tiled floor
Candle light burns without wax,
and day and night passes unnoticed.

Her space is a building of stone
that breaths and thinks and would bruise like flesh
It is the naked vulnerability of her body
Without age or sin, or other confusions.

Inside her space, I alone walk the terraces and hallways,
wander through the gates and pillars,
surrounded by her mind
in the stone and in the air.


The Apparition

by

David Gibson

A warm and shallow wind circles between pillars of sandstone.
The moonlight is vague and lucid, streaming across the unfocussed wall.
Against the gentle humming of the night echoes a sound so
sharp but dull, with unhappy temperance.

A woman walks, her back turned, the rhythm of her shoes tapping
slow meter on the tiled surface.
Her back is covered in dark and rich velvet, smothered in furs and feathers,
the rich aroma of her presence is feminine, flowers and mascara.

Around her waste is draped a dress that expires sullenly, at the back of
her knees, her calves are strong and slender, outlined against the pallid walkway.
Her legs move in slow winding motion, slurring the background in precision
Her small feet are raised in fine high heels, that change step with her heartbeat.

She stops. The heart pauses. The wind drops to the floor and opens its ears.
Her shoulders begin to turn and her face comes slowly into view.

Her face is as paper, and her features as watery marks upon it,
Heavily powdered and undefined.
She smiles and blinks, then turns away to the open night,
passing like a faint taste or smell, sensed only briefly, in contemplation.

The wind resumes its gentle breath, and the night is mysteriously unchanged.
Warm and incomplete, unending and silent.


The Traveller's Vision

by

David Gibson

Heavy green pastures and sweet blue skies stretch hand in hand
And roll round the curves of the earth to meet themselves.

At a point, the grasses change to reeds, and then part to form a pear-shaped lake
where the water is cool and quiet, glittering in the mid-day sun.

A weary traveller came striding through the reeds and happened upon the
placid waters. Kneeling at the bank, he ran his fingers through the
glass and crystal of the droplets, marvelling at the fluidity of liquid.

Stooping lower, he took a drink from the edge of the lake, watching his
reflection until he was kissing his own lips. The water was cool and
at first tasteless, but then gave a sour and dry impression of sleepy infection.

The white painted clouds pulled back the curtain of the sky, and the
traveller gazed into the golden haze of the heavens, adorned with
jewels and fruits and busied by cherubs and great languid angels.

One of the angels glided out of the heaven and sent upon the earth,
gently falling to sit cross-legged on the centre of the lake,
suspended by the water.

Who are you? asked the traveller, and hid his face from the sight
of the wondrous angel.

There was no reply, and when the traveller raised his head, he found the
angel gone, and the sky seamlessly reassembled.

Attempting to recreate the vision, he drank again from the sparkling water,
but tasted only faint natural flavours, of the plants and of earthy salts.

Rising to his feet, the traveller walked away, heading off into the vast green
distance, already doubting his own recollection of the tale.


The Second Coming

by

David Gibson

The smell of dried skin and hungry mouths swarmed on the putrid air,
corpses lay thankful in doorways and against the wire fences.
Death stalked corridors, laying waste with grand swings of its scythe

Blue bottles and maggots squired in the flesh of the dead, hurrying
nature's awful decay. Outside, the smell of gas and the sound of rifle
shots fell crisply upon deaf senses.

The highest legions stood proudly on mountains of shaven hair, of
broken glasses and wrenched gold teeth. Of Golgothan hills, comprised
of many chopped heads, speechless faces, forgotten memories, recording
only one last expression.

Hungry bodies were twisted and wizened. Feeble flesh, skin stretched barely
over brittle bones, and piled to spare in crevices, envying the dead.

In a dark hallway, in one particular bunk-bed ,in a row of a hundred,
lay a bearded man, faint from pity, weak with compassion, his cheeks
stained with tears of suffering.

This man rose like a living dead, and cast his glances in all directions,
surveying the poverty and misery. Greed, hatred and lies, uber alles.

Getting to his feet, he passed by the dying, and approached an open doorway.
Placing his hands upon the frame, one high to his left, the other high to his right,
the man wondered upon a new depravity.

Remembering his dazed and pained hours upon the green hill, he was now
flooded with a new suffering, a thousand times greater.

Would that there be an umpire between man and God, so a son was given to
understand the suffering of humanity. And born upon those shoulders, an
execution. But two thousand years of furious invention had rendered that
simple death a blessing, in comparison to new tortuous nightmares.

Unheard, the man stammered his final soliloquy.
Eli, Eli, Lama Sabachthani ?
My Lord, my Lord, Why have you forsaken me ?

And by the grace of god, he fell to his death,
upon his face, in the midst of a carpet of dead bodies.
Nameless and unnoticed.