John at the window where the light seemed to have been used a thousand times before. He hugged his stomach where today the pain was a bird sitting quiet on its perch. Later it would spread its wings and peck the seed. Sometimes it seemed like an invention by Leonardo de Vinci; pulleys, ropes, cogs, drums, levers sketched on his nerves in an idle moment of genius; a sharp quill dipped in jet black ink. A fantasy machine which worked on paper. It could be a band of grave-robbers breaking the seal of his sepulchre; laughter, oaths and whispered delight as they pushed his treasure into sacks. He witnessed the crime, Tutenkamoun, strapped in mummy bandages unable to move. A perverse erotic act: a little cat tongue thrust playfully within him to tease and quicken his expectations of sadistic delights to come. A violent drunk shouting ridiculous threats flailing his arms around blindly. You tried to ignore him. But when he was silent you shut down all other thoughts to listen hard waiting for the augur to speak. He fell asleep bound in its intimacy, woke to find it looking into his eyes. In sleep it followed like a dutiful servant in the market place of dreams, two paces behind its master carrying the purchases. Once it dropped all disguise or pretence. It was the star child of Kubrick’s 2001: The feotus he carried in his astral womb, made of virgin light, translucent, whole, perfect; issue of rape or passion, it made no difference. It was the proof and redemption of his mortality and he could only love it.Birth sign: Libra
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