RED SHIFTING (I) - [These entranceways look like plundered tombs] Poem by ALEXANDER SKIDAN

These entranceways look like plundered tombs.

Crypts, subjected to invasion and desecration through the back door of history - during an epoch which itself has long ago departed into the realm of legend.

Others produce the impression of labyrinths, withdrawing into the thick of recollections of the ice age.

Double exposure allows one to discover the ghostly hallucinatory nature of the latter.

They flake away from the retina, as though decaying, peeling plaster, under which emerge ever new geological layers.

Behind their procession, in the rippling patina of softening contours that have no time, no capacity to form into an image, the gaze rests on the stigmata of radiant transparency, nearly emptiness.

This is how time closes the dead loop.

And together with a slow seepage of its viscous, glutinous substance into the pupil, history coincides with its own origin: violence.

The point of crystallization.

The messianic coagulation of the course of events.

Deincarnation is equal here to the acquisition of sight.

Glistening magnesium scar stitching together its disfigured tatters.

Echo, fallen away from the moist element of the voice, and wandering in the stagnant water of amnesia. Relics of endemic expropriation.

Very soon these entranceways will acquire a wholly different look.

Grief will go out of fashion (has already gone out).

We are present at the last gleams of historical truth - its ruins.
The continuum of history needs to be exploded.