The fish opened its mouth and swallowed the sea. Its eyes went wide. It didn’t know water could be so heavy. Contained in the fish’s stomach, the sea writhed. It had no room to dance, yet still it thrashed, pushed and pulled by the moon. The fish with the sea in its stomach could no longer swim. It had swallowed the water through which it moved. The fish looked up at the moon, a desperate panic clawing at its scales. Without space, time didn’t make much sense. The fish knew itself because of the sea. It knew it’s own angles and the curves those angles made as it swam, as it danced. Now it was alone with a stomach full of too many things it couldn't possibly understand. It had all the time in the world, but no context; no framework on which reality could be woven, on which reality could be lived.
A Heavy Fish
More by Yellow Sweater
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τό καλόν, τό ἀληθές, τό ἀγαθόν (Transedentals)
The woman wears her skin
like a bathrobe.
She stands in the middle
of a golden field,
weeping fresh water.
-
The Storm's Eye
The sky
blows in more snow,
a breath
from frozen elsewhere.
There is a storm
raging
inside the silent rage
of the storm,
inside God’s eye,
unopened.
-
Cubism
‘"With your pictures you apparently want to arouse in us a feeling of having to swallow rope or drink kerosene.”
– Braque to Picasso
Maybe it’s as simple as this:
Maybe God’s hundredth name is His face.
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