You are currently viewing Babyhead & Red Shadows by David Roden

Babyhead & Red Shadows by David Roden



Those of Jesus Town are curiously out of the world. Of the Rose, reconstituted of HIS superfluity. Some heed their request with exotic fails. Thus far and dross. A Wonder.

Laminar walls squirm filth.

Egg and Sky bled HIS life

The Eremite spins around his anus. The Seeker was his first mark in a millennium, apart from the Regenerates. They were insistent brats. He perforates the skulls of the foremost, tickling for pain. The Decay-Mystic extends the beguiling prostheses and spigots along his visible axis.

Heaving behind their screens, they remind the Seeker of balls at a well.

Jesus widn’t touch that place.

The Temple is stone dead: terracotta, steel, wind-blown ash. Nukes lobbed from orbit radiate into the Outside. Babyheads nestle safe amid superfluid illness.

The Seeker mitres a coiled spectre, implied rather than seen. The Eremite’s eyes fixate; eight red wasps in soup.

“Not many go to the Core Palaces, but they are full of the most curious relics. I’m still not sure precisely what it’s for” he lied.

He aims near the monk’s bulbous abdomen.

He had noted her earlier trying to lick through the webbing to the outside. A kind of absence blisters and some companions suck onto shriven ground. Adult foetuses now.

“From my mother’s sleep I fell into the State.”

He lets the casual sacrilege sink, wonders if he could free the City; whether he had time and cared.

The Eremite’s hard mouth parts click; surely he can spike the Seeker’s oily containment. But he keeps to himself, mewled by death of the Holy Undead. Others peer through hot, but he weaves them another curtain, a maternal knack acquired with mindfulness and breathing.




She felt an indigence in the air. The procession of victims followed. The wind animates dust. My needs prove elusive as any notion. The sun beats down the eastern wall. A fetid rubbery smell that reminds us of some crime. You are uncertain as a prince among the machines. This effort is shameful.  As if our words should be prophylactics against whatever beats wet in the hollow ground. The gods are arranged in unlikely tiers. They could not bear our desuetude. The morass calls for chance operations. They made decisions for us, the dead. You liked it on the hill, but then your eyes fell out, returning to dirt.


I want us to be deadlocked as continents. The skin quietly repeated, a motif. It abstracts. They employ a revisionary concept unlike memory. Still there is a furtive line trailing into distance, history. That is their loss. She thought fondly of the physical demands imposed by the gallery. It lies off the square, where the difficult monuments are.


The city is built upon a peninsula, at the Western tip. It will be an insurgent base during the withdrawal. The facts persist as problems. Navigating between obelisks, I kept thinking “This sky or that flying thing is impossible”.


She said that it was a state of things we have assembled. In the end we can accommodate but only by pre-empting our fate. The theocrats were superseded but retained the incidents of proprietorship over dogs and small islands. But what’s new in that? I think of the other solar spectacles: cirrus, swan, the place where bronzes are laid.


A replica pierces this femur, a series that can have no first term. Nothing is complete or itself. This is it, again, or a soaking in fire we call by other names.