No Exit, Huis Clos

She appears to me, like a dream. One moment, her shoulders beckon, the next her eyes penetrate my very b e i n g, they slit, unseeing, their vitreous humours drown me.

la petit mort, I ga ssss   p  awake, her back once again turned, no light except the soft diffusion of ethereal greyness on her skin. I am lost, trapesing the realm of purgatory as sensual antitheticals stand there, waiting for my inevitable attention; distance or intimacy? Both, unsettling, is it perhaps more comforting to stand in-between, where the greys-meet-blacks-meet-whites-meet-each other?

She and Her, they both stifle my breath as I try to turn from them both, they require my attention, (Do not look away, they crow, to look is to feed them, to turn away is to invoke them). The space between, the void refuses to let you leave, Arrête, c'est ici l'empire de la Mort, turn back- the unforgiven do not let go easily.

Where is, this in between? Why is it that the longer I look, the more enthralled I am, the less inclined I am to leave behind these Sluaghs of limbo?

The grey is heavy, in between. There is no beauty in the intimacies that they bring me, the demand for attention beyond the brief flicker of gaze. Look at me. Feed me. Worship Me. Their tendrils of suffocating g r e y force themselves down my throat,

e x   p   a     n      d      i           n               g

they take my breath away.

6th May 2021

© James Sunderland