The Frankenstein Poetry of Sorauren

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I admire the Frankenstein poetry of Sorauren. Misshapen, asymmetrical, delightful. This architecture is a chaos dream. It’s a blood red brick aged to orange (rusted) in the sun, set in memory (& today, it is my street) Anarchy has always been a favourite of mine by (architectural) design. This used to be wide, open & plain, but now it’s incomplete. You’re not here.

I lived here once, with you, pool pit of longing, deep, soft wrist kisses in between letter between vein. I could tell you easily scent, precise, dive, bona fide slave to memory, I am buried here. With you.

& People will analyze. They’ll look for method. They’ll wonder why it is I do what I do. I think it best that I tell from the start, that it’s you.

(&) How do we resurrect a city? We tell our stories. We give in to our longing, we do not approach nostalgia for what was but more, desire for what must be.

You have to know the depth of our loss. Feel it scream bone deep, flesh withered & beaten black. You’re not going to bed tonight, darling. You’re staying up with me.

This is Roncesvalles 2013.

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