There are the neons, those slapdash pinks that signal a lapsed adolescence, three women at a banquet and the nonchalant gaze of a dandy about town. In this world, there is no return. Only the moment exists.
Walking through the forest, I stumble over the gravestones of the nameless and the countless and all that crosses my mind is that one word 'erasure'. Erasure. Erasure. There is no return.
Through the clearing, I see them dancing; the harpies, those goddesses, those interlopers. They do not know they are being watched. Swaying from side to side like the leaves above them, as if perpetually held in motion, they are drunk. The intoxication.Their heaving breathing signals no return.
And their clothes....no longer rags, but beaded and jewelled beyond recognition. Their eyes, sapphires, emeralds, amethysts and the red-eyed angry ones; lips semi-parted in pleasure, wine staining the white teeth. Fluoro orange, bubblegum pink, neon blue like a sign lit over a highway; a peeping mirror catching the sunlight. Those crazy curlicues, the swirling patterns threatening to engulf the viewer. Seduction by colour. Edible. Brilliant. Eye-popping.
And here I am, an onlooker, nothing but a voyeur, an outsider, the greatest interloper of all. They lie on the ground, dishevelled broken dolls. The garments are splayed around them. Their white limbs glisten with anticipation. And here they are. Passed out after the frenzy. Here, in now semi-darkness, they say nothing; soundless ciphers. I try to move away, quietly, without being seen. I notice the night and the dark and the dark..........