Display By Katherine Horrex

The night is cannon-pocked, illuminated intermittently, and with every boom the tune of the 1812's denouement. War-cries drench and pound against the skin. High in my garret, I am feeling hot nostalgia for an unknown epoch- its whole framework rattles as they skewer the air- streaking synthetic comets that scream to a halt, shatter in a bang and splinter the smoke hued sky. On the day that follows I am transfixed at the window watching the cavalry pick at scraps of fuselage- limp cylinders that clog and litter the flower-bed. The sun against the glass shields me from view and I reflect on how it needs cleaning.

Copyright © 2006  Katherine Horrex

Comments System Prototype Version 1.0 by Mo

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