La Bocca del Mostro

Ondine bench, Jardins du fleuriste, Brussels 2012.

La Bocca del Mostro

From the depths of the Earth to which Lovecraft has condemned me for all eternity, only my lips emerge. Bleached by the darkness, petrified over time, they pass for benches where, every so often, young girls come and lounge. A quiver runs through me then, provoking quakes in other points of the globe leaving volcanologists dumbstruck. From between my lips, my tongue could emerge as a mountain, but I hold it back, and wait, wait for the end of my sentence, the end of eternity.