Searing, consuming heat. In this place of blinding light there is no thought, no pain, no joy.
Just a scream.
One scream which rebounds and reverberates and sings of rebirth.
Fingers dig mercilessly through the ash, attempting to gather all the remnants of what once was and mould it back together into some semblance of the recognizable. Tears muddy the unnecessary and the dust slips through the fingers into memory.
New and frightening and smudged with death a new being shall arise.
...Happy New Years...
31 December, 2009
Caligula and I are pen pals. Together we author madness and romance, tragedy and brutality and beauty. His name is liquid and golden and I am envious of the bitter sweet nature of his insanity. Would you call me Little Boots too?
His name is the silver reflection of a narcissus and I am Echo. Or the echo. Because phantoms don't have names; they are not denoted by the capitalization of a letter. My voice is all that is left. An idea. A repetition of "Alas...alas..."
Would that a pomegranate would preserve my sanity, keep me in death's embrace and away from life's all consuming flame.
"Have me", I call...
His name is the silver reflection of a narcissus and I am Echo. Or the echo. Because phantoms don't have names; they are not denoted by the capitalization of a letter. My voice is all that is left. An idea. A repetition of "Alas...alas..."
Would that a pomegranate would preserve my sanity, keep me in death's embrace and away from life's all consuming flame.
"Have me", I call...
17 December, 2009
The joints of my fingers itch with unrelieved creative frustration and, unfortunately, I seem to lack the ability to relieve this restlessness.
I want hobbit feet. They'd be as big as bread loaves with wiry looking - but surprisingly soft - curly blond hair on the top. They would be so tough on the bottom that I wouldn't even feel the ground as I walked due to the cracked, dry, callused skin. There would be no feeling save those elements which slip between the sheltered crevices created between my toes. The toenails would be forever stained yellow and green and brown due to the dirt, grass and other elements they'd be exposed to. I'd never have to wear shoes again. My feet would be free.
I want white hair, although I'm willing to settle for a good steely grey. It would be long and so thin you could almost see my pink, age spotted scalp underneath. That wouldn't matter though because it would be permanently charged with electricity and would float around my head and defy all attempts to smooth it out. It would reach out to others as I walk past them and caress their faces of its own accord. It would grab flowers off the overhanging branches of nearby trees and would amuse itself by weaving strands of spun sugar around petals of varying hues and fragrances. It would smell of lemon and caramel.
I want a neck as long as my arm covered in tan colored age spots and an altogether glowing, pink hue. When my hair behaves it will wrap itself tightly around my neck like a turtleneck woven of sugar. Were my hair to get in a disagreement with my neck they would separate and my neck would be so bare you could count every vertebrae of my spinal cord railroad traveling up into my indignant hairline. I would always wear a cord of pearls at the base and my collar bones and shoulders would look like roots sprouting from the base of a salmon colored sapling.
I want to be albino...I think I could abandon my pink neck and blonde hobbit hair for the opportunity to fulfill that wish.
I don't want eyes because they inhibit my mind from creating reality.
I want hobbit feet. They'd be as big as bread loaves with wiry looking - but surprisingly soft - curly blond hair on the top. They would be so tough on the bottom that I wouldn't even feel the ground as I walked due to the cracked, dry, callused skin. There would be no feeling save those elements which slip between the sheltered crevices created between my toes. The toenails would be forever stained yellow and green and brown due to the dirt, grass and other elements they'd be exposed to. I'd never have to wear shoes again. My feet would be free.
I want white hair, although I'm willing to settle for a good steely grey. It would be long and so thin you could almost see my pink, age spotted scalp underneath. That wouldn't matter though because it would be permanently charged with electricity and would float around my head and defy all attempts to smooth it out. It would reach out to others as I walk past them and caress their faces of its own accord. It would grab flowers off the overhanging branches of nearby trees and would amuse itself by weaving strands of spun sugar around petals of varying hues and fragrances. It would smell of lemon and caramel.
I want a neck as long as my arm covered in tan colored age spots and an altogether glowing, pink hue. When my hair behaves it will wrap itself tightly around my neck like a turtleneck woven of sugar. Were my hair to get in a disagreement with my neck they would separate and my neck would be so bare you could count every vertebrae of my spinal cord railroad traveling up into my indignant hairline. I would always wear a cord of pearls at the base and my collar bones and shoulders would look like roots sprouting from the base of a salmon colored sapling.
I want to be albino...I think I could abandon my pink neck and blonde hobbit hair for the opportunity to fulfill that wish.
I don't want eyes because they inhibit my mind from creating reality.
16 December, 2009
I walked past a hole the other day. Inside little men in overalls and train conductor hats ran around and swung on the pipes left exposed by whatever had created the small crater. I saw steam rise in great puffs from cracks in the pipelines. Puffs that lifted my hair off my neck and brought sweat to my brow.
My eyes teared.
They had no use for the sky, these little men with the covered heads. The high walls of the hole were covered in mossy green vegetation in which vibrant dots of red and yellow were apparent. One must suppose this provided the little people sustenance.
There was silence in the hole, though activity was rampart. These phantom workers of no purpose had no need for noise.
A stagnant society makes no noise, the antithesis being...
My eyes teared.
They had no use for the sky, these little men with the covered heads. The high walls of the hole were covered in mossy green vegetation in which vibrant dots of red and yellow were apparent. One must suppose this provided the little people sustenance.
There was silence in the hole, though activity was rampart. These phantom workers of no purpose had no need for noise.
A stagnant society makes no noise, the antithesis being...
How to express the colors; from the inside they flow - liquid light staining the emotional state and straining at the physical boundaries of human comprehension. For this exercises words are to be used sparingly and the mind even less. It is a job for the fingers for they must trip over the correct keys. It is now their job to make mistakes sound like music and letters fall into terrifying, life shattering order.
Do you hear that whistle?
As the prints falls it leaves impressions in the dust that was once the desert of their minds. It is not water, it does not feed the parched landscape of human thought because there are no seeds to be nourished. It is a bombshell and the impression it leaves will only collect inspirational debris.
Can you smell the heat?
That is the scorched sand turned to glass. It is transparent and fragile and when another letter hits the mind it will shatter leaving scars in it's wake.
And where are the colors? Why are their loss lamentable? Ink is black, parchment is white, but you and I and the tree sitting in the middle of the room are not. I am pink and yellow and blue. The tree is green. You are ? What do we share but a trunk and, perhaps, some limbs? The tree has more limbs than it knows what to do with so it reaches for everything but never touches anything.
Napoleon is a pastry.
I am a thought...I am not even substantial enough to eat. Perhaps if I conquer France I will become a pen. A worthy pursuit if I do say so myself. And I shall produce black ink and smell of metal and dirt and people will stain their fingers with my blood and thoughts.
Do you hear that whistle?
As the prints falls it leaves impressions in the dust that was once the desert of their minds. It is not water, it does not feed the parched landscape of human thought because there are no seeds to be nourished. It is a bombshell and the impression it leaves will only collect inspirational debris.
Can you smell the heat?
That is the scorched sand turned to glass. It is transparent and fragile and when another letter hits the mind it will shatter leaving scars in it's wake.
And where are the colors? Why are their loss lamentable? Ink is black, parchment is white, but you and I and the tree sitting in the middle of the room are not. I am pink and yellow and blue. The tree is green. You are ? What do we share but a trunk and, perhaps, some limbs? The tree has more limbs than it knows what to do with so it reaches for everything but never touches anything.
Napoleon is a pastry.
I am a thought...I am not even substantial enough to eat. Perhaps if I conquer France I will become a pen. A worthy pursuit if I do say so myself. And I shall produce black ink and smell of metal and dirt and people will stain their fingers with my blood and thoughts.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)
