You brittle sword blades that play at being soft, with your fucking allure and goddamn velvet looks. All supple and inviting, green and enticing, even though I know you’re full of bugs. I’ll lay down, Sucker for your edges on my skin. That’s Spring, time for lying shoots, stubborn goofs.
Crazy dog on a leash nipping the beak of an Alpaca, a little bundle of terror–so damn happy. She’s out on four paws in the noonday shade, fucking with a goat-kid we saved from the grave. Throws herself carefree in the still biting grass, rolls until she can finally hit that perfect spot in need of a scratch. No shame in her game as those jowls go flapping, smiling like the devil inside, bounds off into the hills, roaming free now, ignoring all but her truest calling. Glinting light off one scarred eye, covers up the mysteries of whats come to pass, it’s always in the past, and we’ll know not why.
Found this unexpectedly in my drafts folder, don’t remember writing it, but then again I don’t remember a lot of things in the ways that others do at least.
I don’t know that the entirety of any story, will cover what I had wanted to say initially. I don’t believe that the ideas are wholly there, sitting more like clumps of clay waiting for a better artist than I to mold.
I had a moment once where the world laid open its belly to me and told me to come close, listen at a heartbeat that thumped with mysteries beyond anything I had ever dreamed of before. A kiss to the forehead of reality and the absent blast from it’s withdrawal were the price. The air was a hazed crackle of something intangible and without form and face. A feeling left as an impression the walls of truth and the faded glories of all the wishes we had as children. When we were young enough to put our heads together and pass thoughts back and forth, pretending we were telepathic and could read each others minds. Racing the wind across the grass and stumbling because we felt we had grown wings to carry us at the speed of air. We were flying, brazen fuck yous to the established status quo of gravity bound worms that we had been, free to soar, smiles cutting our faces so broadly that they felt like they would never leave. It was a moment and a time when there was nothing impossible and anything you could think was only a moment of focus away from being achieved.
Close down to a belly thick with the furs of nature gone to shit and trees whistling with empty branches. An incoherent ramble across the soft pink that raised out a welcome heat in radiance and peace. Touch the skin with a shovel and pull the axe blade back out so that the blood could go free. Cinders and ash blasting away thoughts and giving the entertainment for the evening and the night as the moons went rising over the hillsides and into the ethereal realms which can be tasted in the heart and break the mind that walks through them.
Safely in the comfort of truth we could sit in the caverns beneath what you saw in the over world. We were realized and all to ourselves. Peaceful gods surrendering to the joy of being lighter than the air, more stable than the mountains outside. Fucking giants as children, children as men, and something gone to dust during the interim.
Spacious and widely set are these woven walls stinging nettles wrapped firmly around whipcord center a promise of pliable willow branches, carefully soaked switches cut green, bound in beautifully colored leaves thick with thorns. Laced with the fabric of breath, desire, mystique, keeping the luminescent beyond– –beyond.
However, in those laced moments that the air stirs first languorously, then rising to delight in how it can twist and whirl a joyful movement of shifting scents breeze spraying aside the curtains they, no heavier than dreams. Rolling across the stones laid intricate with care drifting to cross the lone pond. Glassine and undisturbed as puddled silver thickly magick and deeper than deep can be known– –as the air quenches and remakes.
Where tendrilled branches cast ripples, serpentine gashes play at being rivulets of liquid cutting once pristine layers on which reflections lay. Alive and shedding mirrored skin, sloshing possibility and promise as ancient hearts cast aromas in the air, only as decayed wood left to rot can. Dust and brittle powdering husks broken down from their heights to furnish food and fuel that the next generation might cast ramparts of growth riding high on the bones of the Old.
Silently they sit. Gazing down at the scarred and skittering pool, beaming hope in darkly radiant intensity from behind eyes set deep with focus. Reflecting, and wishing fitfully, that as it calms, they will find relief from their personal tempests peace through the restoration of waters returning to their unblemished state.
A cauldron of insight, slickly metallic and alluring where they might at last catch sight of their foes, drag them into the shaded glen, bleed them onto the stones, leave their corpses ragged and torn, that they can be reborn with the changing days.
Blissfully drift into their thoughts unfettered by care, smile indulgently at the colorful cacophony as it unfolds behind their drooping lids, Oh!–what flowers Spring would surely bring.
Jack-o-lantern grin on a soil soaked face brings a gleam to the eye, sickly off color oceans sweetened with flint surrounding coals sunk deep, always to be diamonds forever unpressed.
Invert your beliefs despite all the tears, blessed by devils to love gruesomely wishful, they call themselves angels sent from above though their stories are fake always spinning tales out of mud.
Shackle that spirit into iron bound blocks, wither your freedom away until it sounds desperately weak with a voice that falls empty on stunted ears and emotions no longer caring, and even pretending.
Blaspheme your values and lay in a trough, where the swine plunder for pleasure dig deep in the mire suckle like beasts on that sick, sweet, distortion, all while minding the cross.
Dangling promises to release your mind, kept partial and broken sentenced to time after time, words carefully chosen to leave you feeling less than divine.
Where the road crosses and breaks in the dark, trails leading past peaceful places handily strewn with spent dreams, delusions of grandeur and half glimpses of faces, all of them wasted, missed chances for safety.
Memories and hopes on the battlefield lost, reclaimed to a tune that warmed off the frost. Singing songs of cast rays from the sun way out there, rainbows breaking on storm’s end embracing adventure, barking laughter, always finding the fun.
Limp and crumpled between all the worlds, a traveler beneath the weight of mental fissures deeply cracking out way beyond where he started his feet land where he was hurled. Giants lurk out there in a mezzanine layer, reality is a sure thing until fact and fiction are swirled.
Rise up and break down those glassy illusions, smash down the oppression (he thinks to himself) that would handily break you under flurried confusion. There’s a joy to be found and happiness born, love to be shared, thoughts to think, great lessons to be learned.
Memories hurt like jagged rocks in the side, but you’ll never go back, forward though not always straight, no matter the rivers rush or how frightening the ride. Loss can stain clothing, grief stain cheeks, but the future is brighter ahead then behind.
Jack-o-lantern grin on a soil soaked face, in mercy you’ll be pulled from the gates, yanked back out of the chaos and dusted off sharply, lips with compassion and renewed desire, lay on you words of beauty and a kiss to inspire.
You’re insides are gone, replaced with a flame, one beautiful fire, let that light be your name.
Witticism fades on dribble soaked lips caught halfway between quip and piss poor joke, snagged in realization that the statement is not desired. Flagrant display following an ineffectual attempt to display the degree of empathy passed across, mirror the affection and nurturing that is so foreign. Scrub out those Golems whispering in thunderous tones where they sit perched atop your clay built heart you’ve deluded yourself into believing beats so strongly. Open yourself to a differing of feelings, a roughshod pillaging of your isolated innocence protecting you as thistles would from the harm beyond.