I sent her to you,
So her rust would seep into your heart,
To corrode the blades,
A pile of rust, behind a horse and cart.
Snake skin peeled back,
Shed and left to flake,
The taste of rust on the breathe of a snake,
A dagger and a skate.
King John pulled from the marshes,
Where he waits.
Taunts the ghost of Caligula, dressed in white.
It covered every grave and the ghosts,
Kings rose from where they lay.
The air turned to dust,
Rust in all the people’s eyes
They gathered round his cloaked stance, as though he were a deity.
And there it slithered out the cup.
Fortune was not enough,
A golden weighted Truff,
Gorge from its bluff,
We are the sediments of rust.
The serpent spoke my name,
She said we are the same,
Don’t believe these words,
Just like the red in the horses mane,
It’s just a game,
You see it as it passes,
But not when it’s gone.
If I am innocent they will not see,
The jagged edge of the dagger,
I see before me.
For what is power at the end of this corroding hour?
The moments drip onto metal spikes and sticks,
Swords clash and chink,
A mighty climb upon castles wet bricks,
Slip down the ladder for snakes to lick your heels.
The crown’s at the top, it can come close enough to steal,
What would you sacrifice to take it all?
Rest your faith upon the sword?
And rest your blade upon the board
Drink wine with me brother,
Watch gold flow from your goblet and your mouth,
You are now one of ours.
~ by Laurence Fuller
What I saw that day the world turned to rust,
Beneath a red dawn,
Which fell like blood from the sky.
The burning red in my eyes,
Consuming all the time,
Like a snakes scales that shine different at night.
From Rust we are born,
Rust which comes from dirt,
Rust which came from the sea,
On the ghost of a whaling ship,
And forms over everything,
From ground to ceiling,
Crawled and vantage found,
Of severing, sweet, crumbling luster,
The steeple’s gargoyle and dagger’s handle,
I keep it safe for the God’s banquet,
Slumber, slip and place on the mantle.
And to the sacred seat,
Through the armor,
Through their concete,
Everything drops to the floor,
Squirms in the rust.
~ by Laurence Fuller
Rust Collection
333 Rust Portraits collection on Emergent Properties, Generative AI.
Each portrait is based on characters from plays by William Shakespeare ~ each owner was is then entered into the Council Of Rust, which determines the drops for Shakespeare Adaptations and Collaborations.
Airdrops correspond to the character portrait.