Shifting in fluid plumes of purpose and the landscape of the demotic heart.
Oblivion is a thousand shapes of loss. Of campfires and the farce of night
in a country of platforms rolling towards the goatbodied dark. Mountains
drifted white into the impermanence of the dunes, walked as a map nobody
missed, inconstant, here the failed desert and the uselessness of art. Tents
dreamed faster every day, odes to the return of water and the possibilities
that were listening between the lines. Blowing fluid, chimeras abdicated
their classical cold, moved, set, concluded: the sand remembers one return.
A reconfiguration of page 370, The Satanic Verses, Salman Rushdie
Jeffrey Little | Dogon A.D. and the Hard Blues
Contents | Mudlark No. 47 (2012)