- Vol. 04
- Chapter 12
Icarus on the beach
(With apologies to Cynan Jones and Dolores Walsh)
So Icarus descended. Lacquered time Arranged itself in foaming peaks before him. A sand-full sky, a gritted atmosphere, Surrounded that unconscious fallen form, Whose late ambition seemed but a moth dream. Behind its lens, the camera shed a tear.
Its view was only: everything at once, With tidal mountains foaming eloquence About that heat-hovered hermaphrodite. Suspended ecstasy foaming in flanks, Whispering to the world of innocence Experienced. And in the garish light
Of noon, this time-tanned Icarus took flight, With body waxy but unwinged, and mind Scaling a sea of runnels slow receding. He came, he soared, he jumped. Enamelled brine Seeped at his feet. He tumbled or reclined, Momentum frozen. Hope construed the ceiling,
Despair the floor. And in the gallery, one frowned, Squinted, said: “this picture is upside-down . . .”. Now, as summer tilts in its frame, they turn Their bird-eyed view of Icarus around. He hardly notices, he sleeps so sound. He basks. His world rotates. And still he burns.