Monolingoid – SG Phillips

The doves of my Virgil don’t float and then tarry, carry over one another, tarry and carry further only to be floated away on an invisible stream. My Achilles is not the lion whose mane is crowned crimson in the blood of Hector, nor is he the sinister spider weaving his fate as he weaves ‘round his final prey. The temptress nymphs tempt far less when my Odysseus is tied to the bow of his ship- their rhythm- the alien allure of their far away magic is a shade of a shade and a drug. These works are the work of that distant sun, they are not the sunbeam’s particulate- whirring unabandoned and uninhibited through an absolute vacuum, except from the minute draw of me, pulled closer as distance of origin draws further and further and telegraphed vector becomes entelechal arc, until finally it crashes into its greatest desire, then scatters and collides and entangles and happily communes with its brethren who made the same journey, to illumine signs in my world.