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The sculpture
is constructed from individual vertebrae made from porcelain, fired
and then connected by pouring paper clay and re-firing.
Rearranged
Penis
Did you sleep with the fates?
Did they ride pillion with you that night?
Did those three goddesses
Possess you and do they now control your destiny?
Perhaps so, for it seems to me that it is more than
Irony that presides here.
There seems a predestined inevitability,
Predetermined power principles
That have dictated your consequence
Of
being born to be wild.
The price you now pay back
By
instalments. Piece by piece.
The latest gift you brought as promised
Carries with it a certain realisation
In
its creation, that time like the tables
Continue to turn and ultimately the numbers
Do
come around again.
A
reminder that life is equally extraordinary,
Beautiful and brutal. Life is the real deal,
And needs to be gambled.
It
sits in the alcove in the space
In
which you envisaged it
A
niche of measured proportions
That would frame your rachis.
Cock sure that this construction
Would fit.
Certain that you could manipulate
Its primary and secondary intent.
But then it happened. As before.
Shattered in transit - the penalty
For being experimental
For daring to move your form at speed
Without due care; without sufficient
Prophylaxis.
And so the table turned
And so the bet was laid
Thus, you both came
Together. Individually unified
As
I had expected,
And perversely hoped;
Deranged. In pieces.
Fractured. Rebuilt. Redesigned and
Systematically reassembled.
Rearranged.
Stronger in repair.
More interesting and challenging.
Throwing up questions and enquiry.
Ejaculating a brief pious utterance of prayer.
“It is finished”.
As
always my friend you’ve delivered
A
wonderful dichotomous.
Produced by timely fate rather than accident
Two erections for the price of one.
Raymond C Bramford
from 'Virginal Blues' poems and prose, 2007
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