m y..l i p s..l a i d..c o l d




my lips laid cold against my icon's stone


I am the coin of the right hand hid in the left
the wind that blows from all points & from none


the god imprisond in the temple
beauty frozen in the statue
flame held static in the candle


I am the cut man staring from the mountain's face
the bloodstaind hands that milk the white cow silence
lookit for among the living as among the dead one foot in either grave


I am the watchmaker's face in the face of the watch
the hands that cut time's image from the circle
am the spiral turning in its wheel


I am the crutch that costs an arm a leg
the flag of penance handheld high by lepers
which the wind will not distinguish from the flag of plague


I am the one I speak as I am spoken I inhabit loss
my right hand faithless in the mirror's wound


my lips laid red against my icon's glass









video screen showing only noise
gordon kennedy : a drunk man looks at the thistle hotel gordon kennedy : the conjure box gordon kennedy : my lips laid cold gordon kennedy : the face of things
gordon kennedy : myself gordon kennedy : inspiration gordon kennedy : northman gordon kennedy : hillside stream

index