Storyboards, Illustrations, Music Videos, London, UK
Sumerian cuneiform is like
some kind of crazy braille.
I want to hold that oval tablet in my hand.
Weighty, solid, substantial,
it looks more like ivory than clay,
A loaf of words,
polished white, by age, or use, or sand.
A giant incisor, cutting through time.
A white gourd hatched in the earth
its skin pricked with fence-like marks,
as if birds had gone mad and
danced on its surface
or animals had tracked in strange rhythm,
imprinting with barbed claw and talon, and
not teased by human hand
out of plasticine clay.
The syllables wind around the entire perimeter
of the tablet, row after row, like a bandage bound tight,
tightly packed, like arrowheads resting up
against each other, tiny flints to
that draw blood or money.
So long ago, the dominion of words began,
now, charged with unintelligibility,
but still recognisable,
the old fraudster, trickster, bending reality
to its cause.