two large statues

Moonlight. Silver sea. Satellite crosses the heavens, travelling east. I'm on the sea wall, breathing the tropical air, the solitude. Two large statues mark the spots Naomi and I occupy during our daily reruns of the same scene. The futility of it all is manifest in their blind eyes, which contain neither reality nor mythology. The Poet's obsession is my obsession, however, despite the fact that they no longer need me.

I'm tempted to knock them over... like a teenage vandal in a graveyard... destroy the symmetry of their twin shadows and the absurd game they represent. Venus and Mars or whatever the man thinks they are. In fact, I'm just about to heave Mars onto his ass when I hear someone moaning... a vagrant nomad, a stoned phosphate miner, a sailor... or maybe one of the crew, drunk on too many Frankensteins.

Hang back in the shadows, watch... and lo, who should emerge but the Poet himself, moaning with the deep private anguish he yearns to make public in his own special artistic way. He's moving slowly along the wall, his bare feet and loose cottons like the uniform of a patient who's wandered away from his colonial hospital bed. Is he sleep-walking? He stops, turns towards the moon and the sea. Pourquoi, pourquoi, he moans, oh pourquoi... why did she have to go?

He stands there for what seems like eternity before he shuffles off, disappears into the tower. I'm thinking he's gonna go up top, maybe jump or something... but no, he just vanishes into the shadows like he's returned to the catacombs and the crypt he calls home. Weird. Haven't witnessed too many moments of private anguish... if anguish is what this is. Look around, see no cameraman... although this doesn't mean there isn't one stationed somewhere like a cyclops in this mad fortress of dream.

I slink away, absurdly guilty.

12. Kief Ugly »»