Mark Grundy
There stands a viscous green spiral staircase of opal moss the kind a marine fossil would inhabit,
or a ruined palace of extreme sensitivity that mimics the protest of a trombone set in pale glass,
even in difficult times the torso of a mystic Venus could sleepwalk through the centuries,
with serpentine locks of rough archaism and the montages of the orthodox and the abstract in tow.
Natural mineral objects insist on spontaneity and very slowly like to transform space into a state of
ecstasy carried by nocturnal visions, occasionally spilling the monochromatic oil of a painted spectator,
It is there that the jovial bird of lace wire has reduced the gymnastic core of the universe into a
memorial of liberty and restored the cinema of practical jokes to solitude and the architecture of
dreams.