Carol in the alluvion

Deposited on sedimental cradle, protected by brown cotton and old oil
distantly proctored by her cathode-ray parents
Carol in the alluvion sleeps

autohypnotized in futura
in oneiric ascension, she gains height
momentum
in the volant siesta, gerundial
as her shadow, projected is
like a crucifixion on the unerect land, native land Carol.



A soft while later, the God of Europe blesses her eyelids once more and Carol shakes off her hibernation: it's the titanic sole shining at the narcohypnia of her optic nerves who says hello

"Hello Carol, bambina, welcome to the amplitude of the day
Calais is like a brain of glass waiting for your palpebrations this after noon, I'm a child, too, and I missed you, where have you been?"

The round and infantile feet walk toward a kitchen where everything is croquant
light-orange butter on a toast, and white honey on top for a breakfast full of gargarisms
the mother's head admonishes without words -I see without seeing
her electronic fetal monitor pupils invigilate the only daughter:

in un-arithmetic progression
the sequence jumps
you see Carol play
with the vestiges of quartz
left by the indigenous volcano
and this fractured doll, on the planar pais, native soil Carol.


As soon as your cornea takes the photograph, Carol disappears in the alluvial horizontality, if she ever existed.








 

"And there were labyrinths to untie
and yet there was mud to swallow, from my place."