And, she called out to her gods and demons, saying, “wherefore and to what end?
The sun begins to rise and, still, you refuse me the password to sleep.”
And, she called out to her gods and demons, saying, “wherefore and to what end?
The sun begins to rise and, still, you refuse me the password to sleep.”
Strange, dynamic current/s; accusations of dereliction of duties.
So, they transcend from surge to suppression.
Chai spice fragrance in one room; lavender and shæ in the other.
Dragon breath vapours pour forth from the room where a steaming bath is drawn.
And, food is around the wall; but, every bite is like you chewing ice next to me.
But, they don’t die; and, now, they have to live with it.
Just like the sporting, courting gentleman he was, she was informed of his intentions by writing. Epistles held in chester drawers reserved for intimates.
My temples tighten.
We said the same time. Echoing.
Impetus being found without being found impetuous.
Can we go dancing?
The living room would be fine.
Kissed hard last we spoke.
One felled; the other asleep fell.
The dispensation of the enraptured.
She sticks around fifty four years to see the Black Sun when it reappears. The scandalous subterfuge of a subtle sabotage. A gorgeous space virus that more than a few shall remember.
Rope a dope, dummy.
Keep an eye out for the advantage of my left uppercut.
Cassius Clay was hit more than Charles Sonny Liston.
These days, the howls come from a new place. A softer place. A place which usually silences itself to allow other parts to howl. But, now, they fall silent; and, this strange drone of a low, long howl emerges. No longer abrupt outbursts.
So, she put her left hand in her mouth, pushes it down, past her throat, and pulls out all of her ugliness from deep inside. Just to give it a long, hard once over. She’ll have to consume it again and work it through her system eventually. It’s not the sort of rubbish one casually discards.
And, she wears a dress of rain while waiting for the world to collectively feel comfortable and stop holding its breath.
“Sitting still is fatal. All succumb to being sedentary.”
He rolls his eyes, again.
“Bitch, I’m inexorable. I’m outrageous. Gem and the Holograms style. Pull out those old safety pins,” she tells him.
There’s an outburst of birds chittering on the otherside of her windowsill.
“They want peanuts. Unsalted,” she says motioning to the miniature flock.
“I will destroy you,” he offers.
“I know. I know. You tell me that every night.”
“Yeah, but I mean it this time.”
“I know. You’re hopelessly ruthless. I believed you the first twelve times you told me. Come to slay me or save me from the other wolf?”
“You calling me ‘Peter’?”
“No, I’m calling you a boy in wolf clothing.”
First, she assisted in erecting the ædificium of the flora’s subterranean root structure.
Learning from watching the trees talking through their bizarre vasculature, aided by moldy interpreters, the lady discovered the secrets of the adytum of Soloman’s Temple. They inscribed themselves in the Temple’s very dimensions.
Compliment to the unsated volume of the Petaled Shrine of the Pearl.
Then, Bloddeuedd asked her starling to stalk Merlin’s peregrine, leading to his Cliffside~House.
“What do you wish me to grant you for finding me¿” asks Merlin, charmed.
“The power to grant myself my own wishes,” she replies.
The nearly-old woman had rowed across an entire ocean.
Sick of water and the hyena laughs of seagulls’ cries, she found herself dreadfully lonely. A certain kind of lovely ennui.
Upon finally reaching a shore, she steps onto land.
Snatching up and opening her waterproof satchel, she snaps off her final dry match from the little book.
Striking the head, the lady sets the flame to the first tree she sees.
The limbs swallow it and ignite.
The fire brigade arrives, as hoped, her bidden welcome wagon heeding its combusted summons.
They were upset.
“You seem upset. It’s just a trick I learned from the matchstick boys,” she shrugs.
Kids soon arrive to witness the hullabaloo. The fragrance of the fire turns to a stinking reek, as they throw garbage to feed the pyre. Glass, aluminum, become explosives, followed by bombs of pubescent giggling.
“Why are you here?” the exasperated chief inquires.
“Because you have land here.”
“Because the ocean thrust me here.”
“Why were you on a rowboat in the ocean to begin with?!”
“I was exiled from another strip of land for starting fires. Shall I grab a bucket of water? I’ve experienced putting them out, too. Water? Wood? I can carry six of one and a half dozen of the other.”
“Matchstick boys teach you that, too?” asks the chief.
“No. Priapus protects them against prosecution. They never developed a taste for accountability.”
“And, you did?”
“Yes, chief. I’m an honest fire bug,” she says.
She reaches into the camisole grasping her breasts and slides out a demure rectangle. Opening her copper cigarette case, she removes one and waggles the rest at the chief.
“Want one? They make your skin look younger and your hair shine brighter.”
The chief shakes his head.
She delicately clasps the slight case closed and taps the head of the smoke twice against shut copper. Packing it.
“Suit yourself,” she says slipping the case away, against her heart.
She gingerly leans into the burning bush which is all that remains of the smouldering tree.
She inhales, putting fire to leaf, lighting her penultimate square.
Ending up with grandmother’s wedding china because I was the only one unashamed to use and chip it.
Gobbled down and choking on a lack of appetite..
Only one of us made it out; I still pay penance for it. An empath loves the narcissist, everytime. One ideates, conceives, while the other perceives.
Scour my skin to the bone. I am asking for it. I will disabuse you of yourself; just don’t abuse the Looking-Glass.
A sovereign holds the realm when this body alchemicalises into the temple’s adytum. Walls forged of a steely, alloy blend.
Iron and carbon. Chromium. Not allowing pliability of constitution. Intolerance. You ought to don a mask should you choose to galvanize.
It is cool to the touch and smoother than the current state of your aging flesh. Calipygian ass shining and scattering the light.
What is the difference between reflection and refraction?
Ball bearing production won a second world war. The sustenance of victory gardens yielded sustainable consumption.
A stake in envisioning the desired outcome.
“Let them bake cake.”
“All hail the queen bitch.”
She watched his exposed pocketwatch glitch, continually clicking on 1:13.
“Your timepiece has a hiccup,” she says.
“No. That hitch in its get along preserves a piece of time specifically.”
“Oh Specific Standard Time?” she teases.
He rolls his eyes.
That frozen timezone where this intensity of scent memory seduces all into succumbing. Cologne in an elevator. Columbarium. The sweet soap the waitress who touches your shoulder wears. The aroma of my shampoo lingering on your throw pillows.
“You shed, you know?” he says.
“I have known for a while.”
“I found one of your hairs a month after you left.”
“So? Where, what was done with it, and what did you care?”
He simply makes eye contact again and stares.
Returning home, with untapped tenterhooks and tarp in her pack, she bivouacked on the sidewalk of the High Street. Too tired to care about pitching shelter after being so carelessly untiring.
Just a moment to bemoan feeling alone.
Rain patters like swiftly boiling water, in spite of the shining sun. The Morning Star beating his wife again.
As quick as it comes, it will go.
Either the sun.
Or the rain.
But, the mathematical solution to 0! equals one. Seemingly impossible. Impossibly erudite. Contemplative pornography.
Like eating a raspberry just to feel its little seeds gum up the curvature of molars.
She has nothing to say during the day time.
Saving it for night time’s shade.
Knowing next time, she’ll sow these seeds into the desperate nightmares that will become your dreams.
Cowards in the cul de sacs of tax payer paved streets.
I wilt tread over these as much as I please. Let your puppy bark, your motion sensor lights trip. I am a stroller not a prowler.
And, as much as I am uninvited, you are not entitled.
You are a dead end at which I make my u-turn.
I remember you. Yeah, you. You stood next to the burning acacia bush. Hard to forget.
Whilst the girl stood before the podium, clutching her tome, a man held her tresses with scissors poised. A confusing ancient image.
Nowhere else is where she’d rather be. Snip the dead ends and make the sheep shorn.
Hopelessly old to be so young.
And, in dreams did I endlessly empty the carafe into the stone basin. Naked and milky white liquid ever-flowing. My eyes trained upon a single stone upon the ground. A star, a wizard wearing a vizard.
Two pillars of sycamores framing me.
I heard your caw.
I answered with mine own trill. Basil tinted and chai scented.
The folk of Zakopane take for granted the mountain air surrounding. Snug in chalets insulated against the Kasprowy Wierch. While opening the parcel, I confuse feeling wretched with the sensation of a heart being wratched. And, all at the sight of the Slovak postmark.
Because it makes me recall the not exactly cream cheese they call qvark. White cheese paired with fruit and a terrace. A simple ripe raspberry atop to boot.
Prattle and pitter patter.
Refreshed at being carefree sans carelessness.
You are comfortable, he says.
No. You just find me cozy.
And, they threw out all the words I firmly etched with his letterpress.
Into the depths, off cliffs of Tatras,
The Fool forever falls.
Looking like an ever-loving swine in sunglasses. Peacocking. Tail feathers all a’fan. Such a pretty fellow, just ask him.
I over hear a man dropping something in the parking lot. Cursing loudly.
Ten minutes later, he yells out at a neighbor’s squawking parrot, “shut up, you fucking freak.” Pandemic conditions do not become him.
“I’m just saying,” she not only, but also, says, “I’ve watched a criminal amount of cute animal videos this week. Like, if I was on the stand and used it as an alibi, it would go like this:
“Like, see your honor, my tablet history clearly shows I was four hours into binging six hours of watching cute cat videos when this crime was perpetrated.”
“Let the record reflect the witness is not guilty of this crime, but will be charged with something because of the egregious waste of time and countless brain cells. While I cannot formally find her in contempt, let the record show, this court sure holds her in contempt.”
“Like, I would not get a new job if these records of time spent watching were included in background checks.”
I hear the old man in the overhead apartment, creaking support beams in his pacing above me, while aggressively complaining at his phone. “Who wants to play a game,” I think. “What’s the creepiest pet name you can imagine?”
There is a cat named Mister Daddy. I know because I was in the house when it was naughty as I heard its owner crying, “No, Mister Daddy! No. That’s a bad Mister Daddy.” And, you know what? Mister Daddy, being a cat and all, just looked at this sweet girl like, “Ahh. I don’t care. Get outta my face.”
“Sounds like a real soul-shattering experience.”
“I lost sleep for a week.”
“It’s returning to the stranger of your previous self passing you by on roller skates.”
“Everyone commits unconscious fraud, but crimes against your own humanity remain largely unenforceable.”
“Don’t be silly, I just wanted to hear you say you think I’m pretty.”
“You walk with the confidence of a much taller woman.”
Because she hadn’t had a moment to breathe. No bit of space to call her own, even if she did have the back of a Camel pack, a portal of the porthole in the plaster, and sometimes a view.
Sometimes a forest, sometimes a cave; sometimes a sound.
A fault line. A tyranny of averages.
And, what I thought was an ever accumulating posse of ghosts was just me coming to notice them. For, they had been there the whole time. Like when I came to understand when someone begins a sentence with “I hate to mention it”, most of the time, they mean to say “I love having a chance to bring this up.”
When I do come back it will surely be as a book, or a bit of English in a pool game, or the illegible scrawlings penned by someone in ecstasy. And, I know God and I are playing in this moment.
“I shudder everytime I hear the record’s scratch.”
“I like it.”
“It sounds like breaking. Rumination.”
“Sounds like creation.”
“Oh, shut up, Shiva. Shakti the eff up.”
Falling into a swoon of kisses before saying “Dummy,” and slapping him from his reverie.
Lucid dreaming comes easy. Lucid living becomes tougher. I see fantastic stories through windows. I only watch real briefings to enjoy the silent signers providing translations for the deaf. I like the chorus more than the talking bobbleheads.
I recall the slight mass of you. The feel of thin, increasingly inelastic, skin covering the meat of your body. Neckline, nape, and collarbone. Connect the dots; then, come and paint me by numbers. Sign your name with a dripping brush’s tip.
These past days, I have been thumping animal hide stretched over wood. Striking a drum head, softly. Purchased in a foreign market of an alien continent where cattle roam the markets. Haggled over; Hand made; Had at a bargain. Despite being single, that day, I wore a fake wedding ring to increase the currency of my social capital. It’s all in the details innit?
And, the majority of talismans donned subliminally indicate”don’t tread on me.” A woman stranger in a man’s strange land. When in Rome, signal in Roman with protective signs.
I carried the drum on my back for weeks before sailing with it across the ocean. Talking drums teach the impact of saying things by leaving them unsaid. Cowardly lions, heartless tin men, and straw fellows appearing solid until picked apart as disappointing carrion by the mouths of old crows, before finally being blown away and scattered into bits by the slightest breeze.
Dorothy was just trying to find her way home. Wherever that place is. On her way, she sees Shiva stars exploding and feral Nataraja dancing.
“You’ve been needle-pointing with your yarn, Ariadne. You must keep moving.”
“No. I must first knit some socks for your cold feet, dummy. Otherwise, you will certainly slow me down.”
The Goddess and Godhead grew weary of playing the same, old god games together.
So, they exploded. Blew themselves apart into a billion scattered jigsaw puzzle pieces. Awaiting once promised reassembly. Now, we all seek out one another in our presently incarnated iterations. Looking for another missing piece with whom I may hold hands. Spending a spell of time choosing to walk each other home to ourselves, until each of us arrives before a door we remember forgetting.
And, by the time she finds a page and a pen with which to record her whereabouts, she realizes, she has lost the thread.
Having pulled it taught over countless right angles and teasing curves to have only misplaced it.
It sprung back, in release, undoing god knows how many yards of work, in her negligence.
Disorienteering with Ariadne.
Tagged like feral game; categorized as uncategorized.
Rules are simple lip service if unenforcæble.
The fleshy mask worn was the kind of face you put on money.
And, blind hogs suffer no disadvantage in finding acorns.
Snouts sniffing and hairs on chinny, chin, chins bristling.
The caller received a courtesy disconnect.
Provided when the wait is too long and no-one is giving up.
A psst becomes easily confused for a hiss.
And, she finds it a bit too easy to be silent until she thinks of exactly what she would like to say.
In the face of all they have done.
My double assemblage point is sensitive enough to recognize when you run at a different wattage than me. And, tonight, you receive no friendly, instructive spacing or paragraph breaks because I am hotly impatient with the amount of patience you require from me. And, dummies will mistake the body of this page as scrawlings of anger. But, fools will smirk in empathy. Yelling into the Void at your shadow is not always prætty. Sometimes, it gets dark.
The saturation point.
He looked terrifically out of place, dressed like that, here on the trail.
She was a bit irritated at the utter distraction of him.
Yet, he was fascinating.
But, she was trying to take a walk through the woods down to the fish ladder of the old mill creek; and, here was a man in a three piece suit, postured in repose on the sopping bank, as though prostrating before some ancient pagan god.
And, from across the salmon’s spawning pond, she espied that while his necktie was perfectly knotted, the color and pattern of it did not suit his suit.
Not in the slightest.
Off-rack; Tailor made. Beholden; Bespoke
He just sat there. Brutally still, Unnaturally, there in the tall grass.
Loafers in the mud. Simply wearing all the wrong clothes.
She imagines he must be a terrible dancer.
And, she suddenly wants to interrupt him and ask for a dance.
“Sunlight yesterday; dreary today,” he says.
I tease, “Oh, stop with the dismal diablerie, cad. It’s not gloomy. It’s simply a winter gloaming.”
“That’s not what I meant”, he says.
“Oh, I just thought you were awful fond of talking about the weather,” I panto, innocently.
” ‘Awfully’,” he mumbles.
“You are awfully fond of talking about weather?” I giggle, in mock with brown eyebrows arched.
“No. You meant to say ‘awfully fond’. Adverb not the adjective,” he says.
I howl in laughter, “Be careful telling me what I ‘meant to say’; because, you have no idea what I intend.”
There once was a boy.
And, there he was until he became.
He held himself still. Held fast and listened.
There did he discover he was himself
all over again.
She smiles, unobserved, from the corner.