After Arthur Rimbaud & Wyatt Mason

C’est moi! The dead boy buried deep as a seam of red tourmaline – shamanic stone on each
eyelid, tongue scrying through the earth and seismic.
We are in the South. Scarlet leaves buffet the school. We follow the red-brick road to reach
the empty classroom. Spatial echoes of those moments, his touch, is a kind of consciousness.
The jam-coloured hexagonal pillars vibrate.
Bricks rewind to sand. Sand rewinds to strata. Strata rewinds to igneous and magma and
every fault is birthing raw tourmalines – the molten-rose heart of the world.
And singing, they rock back and forth – the tourmalines are like eggs and another he is
hatching. Fabulous pussyfooted beast, embryonic seer, already taking you deep into yourself
and diminishing fear. A natural radiation, his tears are devas. Transmigration.
Don’t tell me assault was transformative. Don’t tell me when the worst happens and you
just move on. Don’t tell me anything but tourmaline and repair – rock: quantum and
shimmering, crimson then clouded rosettes.
O ancient striations and ruddy-blush fractures – incarnation of my long body – a shared
molestation is the key to these crystals; deepening the stain from pink to red.


From Magma 88, Underworld

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