Oedipus: The Black Hole


the subject becomes a double negative of itself
light edges metamorphose into black incisions
the appealing face becomes a grotesque canvas
as peaks become hollows and life, spark, hope fades into an impregnable background
the subject loses ground at an exponential rate
as hope becomes a distant and forgotten experience far beyond reach
every spat, dulled and broken word is by its very contrast
a reflection of all that the subject once held dear
the minute, eye-bright flicker in the centre of the image is reduced to a blurred grey spot
the extremes of the image remain intact
but it plummets where it once soared
where life leapt from the page, clutching at every remote possibility
it now shrinks from view, crawling ashamed inside itself
seeking solace in its own blackened, murky silence
as it becomes the monster of its own making.

i want to believe you haven't crumbled into the void
every glowing surface relieved of light or matter
but i think i'm wasting my time.
they tell me you're lost, messed up, dragged down - fucked.
what am i supposed to do about it?
even by virtue of my own unremarkable stability
the place i am is higher than you can even remember imagining
if i stretched a hand towards you
you wouldn't even glimpse the tips of my fingers.

















But i'd still try if you would.