Picture Description

A glazed frosty sun rose that morning from behind a silhouette of deep green trees, in a sky the color of cellophane blue. It rose swiftly above the horizon, irregular and smoky, moonlike in still waters. Weightless it was, no light, no heat, just the white, a spare dangling vortex.

No lights in the houses, the houses, sharp, boxy and angular. A brilliant red flame breathing through the windows would have made another dimension, but none there. Transparent windows, transparent to gentle, mystic darkness. The doors hidden as though in the shadow beneath the tired eye that was the sun.

Not even the soft lapping of the unreflecting waters. Peace eternal, dreary, dusty.

Summer

Floating in a tin can, a dirty dozen with bulbous heads, spindly necks and corky arms... eyes and lips fevered with a strange electronic disease. Their ears ring with vibrating tongs, their teeth chatter in giddy haste. The dirty dozen float in a tin can, hopeless painless regardless.

The dirty dozen catch the dead wind, in a sea of pink, the colour of rust. A distant light carrouses at a distance, a drunked firefly's entrails are on fire, sickly and alive in its sickness, the light keeps everything in part darkness. Still and solid shadows await in flesh the wrenching cry of the dirty dozen. The dirty dozen freeze, the tin can rustles, the drunked firefly is now a powder wasp with thoughtless patterns on its petals.

The dirty dozen unfocussed lie, trundling, breathing, gasping not. Circuits flicker and their tongues come loose. In funny wheezes to a rolling audience they narrate arid tales of many horrors. Noisy sparks fly out as their tongues click together.. they flicker a while and die out. Their tales are lost in this pitiful transition.

Poetry

A sorrow breeds gently, delicately like the blooming of a funeral flower, giving in to its passing in memoriam for the life of another. Tender youth celebrating itself in the glory of loss.. withering away on forgotten caskets. No morning dew settles on their papery carcass.. nubile tendrils do not string themselves along their maimed stalks. The celebration of loss becomes loss; there remains no significant difference. In the vunerable hours of transition, when no one else is ready, when grief hangs in the air carrying the raw unscented scent off death.. funeral flowers like sacred maidens are picked as symbols of sacrifice. Veiled and embalmed, laid beside.. they become part of the dead. Their living essences form a continuum latching on to the unpreservable. The symbol becomes real in the purging of the loss that was real.. all grief fades away in the grotesque death stench of funeral flowers. The steaming grinding wrath of unconsoled victimhood, writhing at the sight of unfeeling betrayals. Nothing is lost for those that do not die, death is paid for with death, nothing less.

Gibberish 2

Dead flowers are unholy.

She hears the sound of pebbles in a glass jar following her. Dry leaves now damp litter her way and look like they have a faint bit of color coming back to them. The day is grey and dark and everything thing it touches turns a bit purple.

She was walking back home from the train station, her sweater wet, making her think of sheep. Her hair was clingy; she twisted their length and rubbed their tips over her mouth. She continued walking. She hadn’t been going anyplace particular when she left home that morning. And she didn’t leave home often. Train stations take us everywhere. But she wasn’t going everywhere. She was walking back home.

Sometimes we unlock familiar doors and hope to find ourselves in a different place. But she wasn’t in a different place. She was home. Home was nauseating and home smelt of home. It smelt of remains and some of those remains were her own.

She shut the door behind her and peeled her sweater away. She went and stood by the window with clouded and vapory panels. Decondensed drops trickled by and formed incomplete shapes.

She could eat, she thought. But the oven heat would scorch her and make her hair stringy. She lashed open the windows and with a deep breath recalled her computer to life.

The ‘sign in’ button blinked for an hour. Then the screen blanked into darkness.

[………………]

The gibberish begins..

There are no pearly gates. Or maybe there are. I do not remember. I remember I walked. I think. Pearly glades of smoldering white light like a bumble bee’s bottom. Or perhaps a fire fly’s. There is a see-through glow in my memory. But I do not have memories. But I remember. Perhaps I remember a dream.

So I walk. It is dim and I feel like an alley cat in the dimness. The earth is close and I smell it. It is fresh, deep brown and red. I wonder if an alley cat would know. It goes on straight ahead…. the fresh earth, I cannot look around, I only look ahead.

The light is deep and dim brown. I see Chinese oracles on the street. I know they are Chinese oracles. They grind small bones to dust and sprinkle them on each others heads. They sit, look up sprinkle; like spices. There are priests I think… they do not sit. They wear flowing robes and loin clothes and they drift by like thoughts. In either direction. They chant and I listen. But I only hear a railway engine. But I do not know what a railway engine sounds like. I could have been hearing anything. I do not remember. I do not have memories.

They pass through me, prismatically… a million worlds pass through me or perhaps I come in the way. I cannot tell. They ask me if I would do human. They do. I must have answered. I do not know if Souls have opinions. I am a soul. I do not remember if I answered. I want to crouch. But souls cannot crouch and souls do not know fear. Perhaps they feel it. But do not know.

I belong to her now. I am human, I think. She keeps me sedated into mock somatic states. I am in a cusp somewhere inside her. I do not feel still. She takes cough syrups and headache pills and I feel them. Perhaps they change my composition. We do not communicate. She doesn’t pass through me. We are bound in chemical bondages. Perhaps I am a pill she takes to forget.
I have no memories.