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© 2017 - 2019 BABYSTEP MAGAZINE

Context Collaborative- The Last Supper

October 7, 2019

 

 

The pop-up introduction of fresh fruit laid in jelly flour, sprouting through threaded-bare bags, accompanied us as we passed ornamenting rustic displays which were lined with knock-off mayonnaise. Wired men sat as music boxes played in the scented carpet collective, reflected in shadowed abstraction, puppets of human object reaction. Lined voices in humming chairs; last of the rings, facing walls both imagined and imaged concrete; the sliding shows veined linen scared it from full view. Wholesomeness’ sacred view; a past society gone askew, in full transparency made apparent how hard it is to bathe in wholesome talent. Spoken, sung, spring-ridden breaks, damns over hells less apparent, soldiering tragedies of our own, trusting with our deepest, yet veiled, thoughts, emotions and transient hallucinations. 

 

Descended hush; structure enclosed, enwrapped attention, stage now clear, the poet flourishes in all that hear. Multitudes of mouths speak a thousand words in one; washing waves of sandy feet peek out, a mother’s pride, love and loyally kind. No longer cunning pillows hide the inside poet sounding out, as musical beat and rhyme; a repeated glistening tide. Voice-coded bottles, moulded message inside, the popped cork chimes a riddled mime, tracing glass shards of our crumbled societal climbs façade. Laid, paid, consumed once made, our culture of craving such taste depraved, paved roads hardened by rain, thunderstorms punching in a tased daze. Generation X, Y Z… now were gone, through sharing our story, together we’re strong. Wholesomeness is our childhoods’ summer haze, raised bread in clay, stoves of steaming taste in rivers trickling pace, tinged emerald glaze accompanies rippled hair displays. Sometimes blue expression uncovers paths to consciously wholesome joy.

 

 

 

Stooping to admire sung-speak, wood and skin, natures nourished kin, climbing high and low in time. A carpet of rhapsodic lines painted rainbow tones coloured dew, a blue and green clean sheen oscillated in re-vamped space-box echo, stretching through décor-sculpted expression; setting stones of tapestried arrays, a place for us to play. Three lines of voices and two guitars, harmonic expression in perfect parts with one rhapsodic lead and the duet of strings, peaceful, not frenzied but still possessed by genius of minds deceased. Conveying a dreamy past in present, wrapped up in tonal tranquillity, before all our pockets buzzed, before we lost connection with tongue and cheek, lips and teeth; to speak. Adaptation to the light from shadowed caves, in a new time-habitat, popularity stacked high, acoustically so loosely slides into new, whilst past styles collide. 

 

 

All colours black, white and Grae electrically became, passions collective cover; magnetism borne is to depend, on you the power of another. Yet can be carried still; a Herculean stone, written with one’s own inspire. Apparent level rings seem solidly fixed, except for prepositions of another; a referred, face shadowed audience member, unique and veiled, a poet’s lover? A muse of poetic derivation establishes another layer, conceived of poet and rhapsode, as one and the same together. Organic originality, conceptual as theory, flourishing lightly, a feather binds two rings as one, a further face exposes. Perhaps displayed as at a distance, the shadowed face would glance, if really muses made man’s sentiment, or is it rather shadows cast, by rings not shadows on the simple ground of the concrete, carpet collective.  

 

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