There is violence to Beauty. It betrays and sets us aside; departs and leaves us to cry. Simplicity; symmetry, elegance and proportion. But then the dislocations applied to beauty by a clumsy brute: a lump that sits inside us: a weight greater than our total mass. It alters beauty; stops us loving it - and then we are gone. The train moves on; the endless rattle and jolt; the wrenching apart of grasping hands. And Death, its warm garden sweet with a scent that lingers around the nostrils; the hum and hover of insects: specks of black against the palest petal; fleas and speck-like bugs; shiny, black as bitumen. Bone, hard and white, lies upon the crumbled earth: a grave disturbed by a gardener, his yellowed nails scratching the soil.

The violence of music: a pure note returned endlessly upon an echo; vibrations against stone; skins stretched tight and slapped with the hand. The beauty of a man’s body – the runner by the sea: muscle sits on bone, tailored and effortless, like the saddle upon a horse.

But is it all just envy, an appetite; a desire to consume the thing that beauty has? To grasp it in the fist; feeling its soft pulp: a wet plum sliding down the throat. This is the endlessness: the desire to hold onto beauty; the love of life - not for life itself, but its endless shimmering reflections, shattering twists and splinters of light; the pools of colour on a slab-stone floor. Eternally, we allow life in – inside us, pumping and gurgling, ebbing, flowing; the flux of organ and blood; balance achieved, then lost. The tilt and the jolt of ugliness.

Why allow life this control over us?

Smell that sweet scent my friend.