Abstract Machine Poem by Mary X

Abstract Machine



A hand becomes something Other.

Skin stretched taut over the cobbled, riveted knuckles.

Suddenly, no longer is it a hand,
instead it delineates skin, bones;
folds, creases;
angles, shapes,
into a point of contraction,
destroying any familiarity it once had,
melting into surfaces.

My hand is not my own,
it now belongs to the picture 'out there'.

My hand is something Other.

COMMENTS OF THE POEM
Nasarudheen Parameswaran 31 December 2010

This gives a scanned picture of the material existance.

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Mary X

Mary X

London, England
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