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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476849" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Scorched Futures</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Scorched futures adjourn the skull's medley of escapes<br>	when hell tunes the vibrant spinal cord <br>		to one translucent black note. I don't expect <br>to be believed by any but the insane inoculants of the hour. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">	Call it what you will, evil, error, sin, ignorance or ego; it wears<br>		a planet of masks and a great white smile <br>to get around like blood amongst itself; sometimes barely visible wolves, <br>	often, the cracked cup of the one you love<br>		lying face-down like a wilderness, dead at the table, <br>blue copper sulphate slipping silently from the corners of the mouth<br>	like a serpent or a doctor leaving a doomed house.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">		These days you can look through a library of mirrors<br>for uncontaminated eyes and see nothing for years<br>	but an eerie oatmeal normality that belies <br>		the pain on the shadow of the face<br>condemned to terminal row for life, asking silently<br>	to be delivered from itself like a posthumous letter of regret.<br> <br>		Now the wounds are deeper than the deaths, <br>great cosmic slashes that plunder the swollen womb of its birth-stars<br>	and render the mother still-born and dark. Death<br>		knocks and a greater terror opens the door.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And this foolishness hasn't got a name, a characteristic. <br>	There is no way to distinguish the sneer from the smile. <br>		Call it your life but you don't know what it is <br>when the darkening hills open their mouths like fish <br>	and swallow the sun, the moon, the stars. Shadows written <br>		on pages of light, and you, an illiterate.<br> <br>The river dreams it has no banks; space finally gets the point<br>	and a million unreal worlds fall like leaves <br>		from an imaginary tree full of the moments <br>of birds, a clock of birds, each an hour and an aeon, over<br>	before they begin. Late for your birth and too early for death, <br>		you make a life to pass the time; you draw your face<br>upon the waters of illusion with your finger; the face lingers <br>	and the waters keep moving. Somehow you feel <br>		left out, left behind, abandoned by the flowing. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Eventually you drown in your own face to ease <br>	the irresistible current of your own longing to belong.<br>		Is this illumination, arrival, or suicide? <br>Maybe the sea will receive you like a word<br>	it whispered into its own ear; maybe this is your afterlife<br>		and you're too enamored of the dream<br>to wake up in paradise. Or maybe this is the clearing of the throat<br>	we call hell and all the songs are broken, all the wings are ruined, <br>		fractured guitars, idiot lighthouses stammering to the storm. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Goat-junk, even the holiest. And now there is this emptiness left, <br>	this debtor-zero that goes from door to door<br>		asking if anyone in the house owes it anything, <br>its eyes, two begging bowls, its heart, a panicked furnace<br>	eating lethal salads of incriminating Nazi documents, <br>		the bitter herbs of withered victory gardens. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">You're trying to finance a movie of your fingerprints; you're<br>	lost and yet you're standing at the crossroads like a street sign, <br>		your emotional life, a traffic-light<br>in a cemetery where even the ghosts can't give you any direction. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">	So what are you now; what address would you offer the stars<br>		that have pulled you over for delirious living? <br>Everything, a huge lie, corrective vision, a lifeboat full of sharks.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">	That's when love blooms like a white star on a dead branch of the night<br>		and too desperate to obey, you bite into<br>the black apple of your own heart, trying to stir <br>	your dispirited cauldrons of boiling vinegar<br>		into the golden foil of joyous ciders. Don't you see; <br>this time around <br>	it's the star that goes looking for the magi; it's<br>		the garden that gives names to Adam and Eve; it's<br>the sinner that saves the messiah.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Patrick+White">Patrick White</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476849" data-title="Scorched Futures de Patrick White" data-description="Scorched futures adjourn the skull's medley of escapes
	when hell tunes the vibrant spinal cord 
		to one translucent black note. I don't expect 
to be believed by any but the insane inoculants of the hour. 

	Call it what you will, evil, error, s..."></div>
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