a mirror and a spyglass are set up on the stage
the architects are prepared to construct
a house of chords
a dark halo of colours

lights dim to an intimate tremour
they breathe with their eyes closed
carving into me lungs with their tongues
these machinists liquefy my cells

what is the half-life of a song?
i am unmade in your reverberations

the keys on the blackboard
are made from their own bones
my blood is tipped from my heart
the echoes refract off every surface

they are not immune to their own momentum

the frequencies shape them too

© chris DINGLEY 2013


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