March 1, 2011

Ian Curtis. The Eccentric Poet.

Four fingers and a thumb make a palm. The fingers long, bony, bend into perfect arches; almost identical in form and shape. The thumb, short, stubby, flatter, stands alone, at a lower pedestal, almost two inches apart.

The dwarf might appear inefficient, but without it, there would be no mankind.


He woke up that morning. His body lay flat on the ground, tired, fleshy and immovable. Wrapped in trousers and a shabby tee, his left knee made an obtuse angle and his right arm reached for the ceiling. A yawn opened his mouth wide and unleashed the foul breath. The toothbrush stood on the first shelf in a glass, in his bathroom; its bristles not used for over a week.

The birds fluttered, twittered, perched and spotted the branches with their beats. The flies buzzed, swirled, meandered, sat and infected. The outside pond rippled, the tadpoles squiggled. Egg yolks cooked in a pan; a hen plopped another egg. A barber cut a woman’s hair, a teenager grew his. The leaves painted the ground yellow. The ground sat quiet, unpretending, keeping secrets. The clouds relayed the sky. Scissors cut moustaches, clothes, cardboard boxes, pages. Clothing lines hang clothes, people.

Somewhere in Macclesfield, a poet hanged himself to death.


Inspired from the last scene of Anton Corbijn's film, Control

No comments: