Marianne was not an abstractionist for that was before her time. She travelled with someone carrying her boxes under her arms. There were five of them, two more than she had woken up with in the morning. They seemed to be blossoming trees, but they had no leaves. A little bird had just made the last move with its wings in the air and fallen down to the ground. The branches of ivy strangle the loose women that dance in the light of the worm. How does the animal instinct shine through plastic gems that stick together like sticky fibre of silkworms? With teeth of chainsaws that gnashed, and ground together, and roared. They gripped tight around the trunk of a birch tree, and the shredded bark flew up in all directions, burning the paper of past recoiled serpents who languished lovingly upon a cushion of opulence, sitting silently, until there is a sudden burst of breaking wind. Haptic laughter nags her conscience. She weeps and weeps and weeps until the world is sick of her weeping, and draws a thick black veil across her face. There is something missing. The opulence radiated through a cosmic necessity for manufacturing idols. We leapt from our primordial soup, ears flaring with desire for a new…something to stare back at and to laugh at hysterically, but painfully. Yet there was always the long road ahead, yawning, aching, beckoning like the lover she found under a blanket, sleeping, weeping, touching velvet now sweet, sugar touched tears trickle down the syrup trunks.

By Jane Sparkes, Philip Kane, Emese Balog and Tim B Layden


~ by londonsurrealistgroup on September 5, 2011.

One Response to “Marianne”

  1. it conjures beautiful images

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