Vanessa Matic, our in-house poet, is back with a new piece of literature. This time she has surprised us with a piece of short prose, in collaboration with photographer Emerson Cooper. Read it after the break.

Matic&Emerson///Dream Convo’s

V: Virginal marble, silk golden string, Chanel 5, there in the midst of favoring the ocean of people under the influence and you under the heroin watching with fish eyed vision. And the magazines and shit and technology and manipulation. Color stream like wild rivers diving visions merging in one. Screens fluorescent laser drag and interwet dreams.

E: Sleeping for years…In that dream I was lying on my back in a river, with all but my face covered. As time passed I became accustomed to that darkness. Looking back it seems more clear that I should have paid more attention to the spirit of her words. She often told me to be brave and remember the cat’s pajamas. As I recall, she made Ohio sound like dreamland. I think now, this might have had something to do with her hidden nature. She could make flowers communicate with other species. Yes, they were brilliant listeners.

V: My arms longer my dreams stronger.. Aching for the morning to catch the dreams that have fallen off as sleep awakens. A new day breathing, a beating heart that reels the sound, the vision, the breeze like under ether. The oblivion a burning black hole, escaping life. Like a dark dream that never goes anywhere but inside the storm, as the skin that touch where we’re mental. And all the flowers torn like limbs in a fever burning, the religion a pylon of filth.

E: See your burning. It is late at night when things are quiet that I reflect on the judgment of beauty. Not by choice but as you must know: I have no control over the perpendiculars. It seems like a long time ago now but I believe that chapter can still be found in April 1915. It was not a dream but your awakening. I was not at all surprised. Earlier that day I overheard two blonde women chatting in a cafe on Hudson Street. One drew in her breath, turned to the other and called her Hope.

V: I have learned, loved, and laughed. After twenty years where am I? But a living dead vessel. Nowhere further to go, but I keep going much further than they allowed.. And what does he think of me? If he thinks of me at all? A mother, a wife, a sister, a whore, a lost friend that fell behind his back. As our ways parted directions that were most unlikely to rekindle as you reached towards them with deep longing.

E: It is true that dogs will not bark on Rialto Bridge tonight. I do understand she was born in the shadows but as far as I could determine she remains within the golden section. With her right hand she draws faces, with her left, imaginary numbers. I was with her once and found myself counting a herd of deer. She will likely be extraordinary but I can only tell you half the story.

V: The story never quite is complete, we forget to remember it is like a memory waiting for the touch to be remembered again or completely forgotten by what we meant to taint the moments falling. The day was rain you sit down and cry. I was listening to the moonlight touch you and the noises blue came through. Your Fugazi record tearing your heart in two. Wasn’t I the one who said I loved you. The time kept slipping station to station. I wanted my records back.

E: Dante says it’s alright to cry. Truth is not even double dutch could save us now. Like pyramids. Some death inside. It haunts the poem but seems to be no other way. Only after I arranged the numbers did everything fall in place. One through nine and then five gates in a row. You become the girl walking the hypnotic dog called Sandy. Ivy Anderson said you died but to me you still look great.

V: Well so, death is not the end, that’s what Dylan said so we must be pretending for a happy ending. Comely we dance a new vision efflorescence soften the violence I’ve had too many times. As daddy would tell me to be wise, and not depend on other guys. We’re all somewhere else now, my name is Carnival I get down to the sound. I see all of the clowns. Poor crazies I thought they were all free running in the streets half vegetable, half human, mutated magnificent fools sparkled in gold dust. I wonder if some people miss you and don’t tell you, and the time passes with you not knowing that they missed you and you might have felt the same if they just said the words. “I miss you.” Sometimes you’ve got to walk through all of the rain and then you might forget your tears are falling. And then you keep on walking. Brood attractive pity filmy dissembled and we are bittersweet. Our words belong to forgery subjected to illusion when in each, reality is a reality previously handed and used. And I still think of your misshapen edges as beauty, and you still bruise easy and dream big.

By Vanessa Matic & Emerson Cooper