Asghar Abbas's Blog, page 8
September 13, 2017
Christina Grimmie
ashes, coffee, the smell of burning wood, are all the things she enjoyed in the morning. At the break of dawn, something else loved her too, the way she breaks herself though she was no contortionist was beautiful. Even without being confined in the hollowness of a glass, she was still heady. Who wouldn't want to drink it? And yet. But she was the sickness the morning wasn't very fond of. For, and this is true, at the crack of dawn, Dawn rejects like her like water. That's the moment, she stopped being scared of all her ghosts, and they became wary of her, all their screams like their rage were silent, like a numinous absence, all of this too watery. But who is staring at whom at this point, who could even tell. All she could burn were her memories. Burn them, she did. She burned them all, her ghosts too helpless not to help, they watched them perish together, all the memories. But something other than her was enjoying all of this and there was much to enjoy
September 5, 2017
Iva Gyongy Uncut. Vol I
I leaned back in my seat and took out my iPod from my bag. I smiled at it wanly, no matter what I go through these days, this little thing never failed to cheer me up. I clipped it on my tee shirt sleeve, inside my trench coat and started to play the tracks. As Away from me began, I glanced out the window and saw that the rain still seemed to be following me.
The train rocketed across the rail away from the rain. I lifted my leg and placed my foot on the safety rail in front of me. I absentmindedly stared at the faded Nike symbol on my shoe.
I was watching the rain outside, while trying not to look at anyone in the eye here- when I noticed a guy sitting few seats away, staring at me, but not like the way guys normally do.
He saw me looking at him. He smiled at me. I was startled even when I was expecting him to do exactly that. Though, I didn’t want to but I smiled back. He leaned a little closer to me, then he spoke. “What you rather would be; a human being that brings on death, or an angel of death that gives life?”
This is exactly why I do not talk to people on the train; they tend to ask these types of questions. He didn’t wait for me to answer him, instead he smiled, “But are you even human, that’s the real question huh, Iva?”
I blinked, how did he know my name? When I looked again, he wasn’t there. Wait, have I seen him before? I had this vague feeling that I knew him somehow, from somewhere else.
Was he even there in the first place? Maybe I didn’t hear him right. After all, I was listening to my iPod. I shook my head to clear the thoughts of impending delusions from my mind. Doomed or not. But that's how I got stuck in a story that's my own.
The train rocketed across the rail away from the rain. I lifted my leg and placed my foot on the safety rail in front of me. I absentmindedly stared at the faded Nike symbol on my shoe.
I was watching the rain outside, while trying not to look at anyone in the eye here- when I noticed a guy sitting few seats away, staring at me, but not like the way guys normally do.
He saw me looking at him. He smiled at me. I was startled even when I was expecting him to do exactly that. Though, I didn’t want to but I smiled back. He leaned a little closer to me, then he spoke. “What you rather would be; a human being that brings on death, or an angel of death that gives life?”
This is exactly why I do not talk to people on the train; they tend to ask these types of questions. He didn’t wait for me to answer him, instead he smiled, “But are you even human, that’s the real question huh, Iva?”
I blinked, how did he know my name? When I looked again, he wasn’t there. Wait, have I seen him before? I had this vague feeling that I knew him somehow, from somewhere else.
Was he even there in the first place? Maybe I didn’t hear him right. After all, I was listening to my iPod. I shook my head to clear the thoughts of impending delusions from my mind. Doomed or not. But that's how I got stuck in a story that's my own.
August 31, 2017
Terri Foss
There were so many enemies looking at her across the battlefield. Among their ranks were friends there too, too many to count. In the dying of this light, the dead trees strengthening her, she gnashed her teeth and kept the very last day of the summer to herself, for herself, for she was herself again. Rain was still something unknown to her, somewhere she was still an inkblot heart. The history of this rain was history though and she was never part of it. That secret history she kept secret to herself too. It was so hard for her to say farewell, but her farewell was never a goodbye. In the fading of this life, she finally forgave herself. She accepted the fact she was the only warm thing left around here and here she was no longer there.
August 30, 2017
Greta Larosa Photography
It's better to let go than to recreate. It's always so much better to create something new, especially when you are not in anywhere new, place or mental state. When it's all the same, you don't have to be. You can start anew. And yeah, I know. I look the same as I did when she told me she thought she loved me. I am still the same, still look the same. Looking at her now, with Sigur Rós warning me in the background, is making me so nostalgic for her. As she is now, she's reminding me of the girl she used to be; never real but always magical. So full of things that dissolved in the air. Though I'll say this though. The red of her mouth looks so unfamiliar now, seems unknown, feels empty and moves nothing in me. Time has distorted and squeezed her mouth into something unbearable, I hardly recognize it. But her breath is still familiar, still feels like her. Monstrous, ruining women, weakening men, and making all the clowns happy. Her torn lips no longer telling the story of the rain, but the memory of the fish lingers on. She is still moving on, not dour, leaving now. Heading full tilt in just one direction. Where could that be. A place where she dreams about her reflection, but she dreamt that too much, too much of that. She's burned out now, her burnt fingers aching something else in her. Where else is she going to meet me other than the Graveyard of the Trees. It's there I'll give her what remains of tonight. In exchange for the numinous spiral, spindly and liquid, I will give her the night.
August 26, 2017
Subterfuge ; hard goodbye, the long Halloween kind
I've come across so many wanderers during my numerous travels to the far reaching places. Straying strays like a perfectly stray thought that would always conquer the night, were those who roamed alongside me, constantly at my side. Constant companions constantly misplaced beside me in the distant lands that kept finding us together. We had each other and the others didn't matter. It was a war especially painted by us.
It had been an exemplary errantly to be sure; elegant, enormous, erroneous. Happily erratic we were through it all though. Drunk we were on familiar stars too, like a lucky number that never brought us any luck.
Only rain it gave us, and not the good kind. Wayfaring by the wayside we were waylaid often. Then we were gone. We were like a nebulous defeat, graceful in shame. Who could blame us, we were always a little wayward for other people's taste. Something else was always more to our taste, something refined, something unreal, something unkept. A little wild. Rebellious. Irreligious. We were no solution, we had no solution for this, for an unneeded heart. What else can we do about this, but what to do, about an unwanted, unwarranted, an uneventful mind.
We are holding a well lit matchstick, but what's the point, everyone around us is blind, ironically blinded by our own light. This one right here, that we're holding, can't you see what we are illuminating. We only know how to retreat, that's what we do best. What we must do now.
We, you and I, we always assumed we were that errant ghost and not her. But only she seems to possess the gift. A dark knife, her fingers wrapped around the bone hilt. Don't twist it gently. The moon is crowding us, but we'd tell her we want to earn all her smiles, and we'd say to her, the sun is about to vanish and disappear somewhere behind the blood of her name.
We, you, and I, not her- maybe her, just her. Look at her, she's glowing because she's numinous, she's fading because she is not there at all. She's inching ever closer, she is leaning forward, and yet we are the ones who are disappearing from sight.
We absolutely adore how all the animals, mythical and extinct, move her in a way that is honest. In a way she is not. Like that, that way. There. Not here. The bats in their caves love her. She knows very well how to make all the hirsute beasts grotesquely happy. She does. She is doing that right now. All the Blind Ants are seeking her out too, every single one of them, looking for her, trying to see her and her alone. The remaining bees want to do her too. On the flip side, she loves sprinkling dead beetles on her frozen ice cream, she does. That's how she twists all her endings. That's how she likes it. She's trapped, tapered candle that she is, a beeswax statue that won't melt away.
I am glad we didn't get her the flowers she had demanded when we met her yesterday, that makes me so happy. She didn't protest too much, she was busy not being there. What a loser, amIright? I mean, aren't we, right? Us or her. I wish we knew her in November. I wish I could make her stay in February. But remember, how when she was there, we were somewhere else. We were home. What about her own dwellings though. She could live without her beloved grotto, she is already living outside it. Remember, how she was worried about her nonexistent paintings. Her paintings forever left a mark, either on our walls, or on our mind. A gentle impression gently impressed upon time like an egg yolk bringing out the vermilion color.
How they used to do that in the days of yore. Yoking something together, keeping it stitched, holding all three of us together. You, me, her, we all share a certain kinship, maybe even a fellowship bizarre as that is. She was always less than a friend and more than a random person. It's a strange relationship. For sure. Over, but still there. Still happening, still flowering.
It's a good thing she is not that possessive, though more often than not she'd declare herself jealous and would remain aloof and quiet within herself. Even when all of us would be sharing her rickety bed under her thatched roof. All we lacked then was the rain, and the midnight shoes.
Her shyness fouling her breath notwithstanding, it's always better when she wants to kiss us, especially when she's already doing that. So good. It's so good. Feels too good. After all, at this point in this story, we should be kissing her and she was supposed to kiss us by now. That's just too bad. We no longer want to exchange anything liquid with her.
In the middle of her kiss, she'd make fun of us though. Her fingers look misshapen and broken. Her skin always misspeaking. The rindle of it all a little misleading. Her breath brittle and colorful. Even with us, she was empty. Never full, never sated. Rarely there at all.
She was alone, she wasn't afraid. She wasn't afraid to be alone. It was just that the cat was chortling and its laughter was human. Very. But cats alone could absolve her of things she wanted to do. Of crimes she almost didn't commit. She could walk like us, but at least she knew how to remain lost. Stay gone, she would, she could, she can, she will. And her Cat knows her all too well, her cat knows her, what she had promised, her cat knows that too. Promises made to cats are best kept. They are. They better be. Blacken the bettors will be if they are not fulfilled. She was not disloyal, she knew that. She always kept her Word. That would be her undoing. She knew that as well. She was oddly okay with that. It was fine. She could only hope her cat knows that as well.
She was always the invisible middle between the two of us, always.
Churning many things, we stirred within the woods and all the boughs shook, we didn't fell her, but fall she did anyway. She fell. She lay there felled. Right underneath us. Sprawled out under us, unrepentant she was quivering. Under the covers, under us, her dress black as night was ripped, she had that done that herself. She was in rags to begin with. Though what she was mourning, we do not know, she was the only one not alive.
She was only couple of patches and bruises short of being a rag doll. But that was okay, we were scarecrows ourselves, stuffed with not straw but with Something Else. Though we were the perfect straw-man, both of us. But we didn't scare her, did we and she loved the murder of crows, she did.
In this real life, she wasn't moving under us, but we weren't amused, she couldn't deceive us, not really. She played dead only too well, she knew how to do that, she did it so well. She would lie still for the longest period of time, she did smile the saddest song. Even her breathing was fake, like counterfeit gold. She could be very convincing when she wanted to be, when she bestirred herself that is. She once made Death doubt itself and she already had the living fooled. She was absurdly proud of that, giddy even. For the nonce, she was beneath us, but she was not the one who was helpless here, she never felt powerless under us, she wouldn't, she could just as easily reach out and snap our neck. Thinking of wringing our neck does quell something ancient in her.
She is not the only one who could caress the corpses, but she doesn't have to do that anymore. She wasn't alone anymore, she didn't want for company. Though she didn't want company. Any. Ever. But we were not leaving her out of our sight, she was out of our mind, out of time, outcast of time, she was.
Why?
Well.
She was a woman, therefore she was a story. But as a story she started ten thousand years ago, five thousand years before the recorded history begin recording, before all that was false was written down in the dying false light. Stay calm, it's only cool chilled chiliads, so chill out so.
She got going and became legend. Pretty much like how the story about an ark carrying the dinosaurs got started back then, back in the day when the days were young and people still human. Tilting to one side, where that little dinghy would have berthed? You tell me that. The boat beached on the deserted sand dunes, where it could. Where it was all possible. To begin anew. Now get off the boat. But what the boat disgorged and the only thing that disembarked was stale Faith and fossilized Belief. Which were immediately hijacked by corrupt priests who would promptly sully the soul, so resentful of people who had nothing, which they couldn't wait to take from them. They had already robbed them of their wits, poor buggers, their victims were spoiled by these preexisting priests, vilify their subjects they do, vile these creatures mostly men are, corrosive their touch. Fuck them, but don't fuck them. You don't need a soothsayer to tell you that much.
Once they are dethroned, and they will be, for sooner or later they will overreach themselves, they always do. Beguiling, belligerent, greedy, aggressive, foolish buggers that they are. Fools die, yes, then why are these fools still around, wasting oxygen. Stupid they are. Once they are ousted, they'll bolt, they will. Just watch. When they are running, soon they'll be on the run, for they love fleeing from fights, do not, I repeat do not give them any sanctuary. They'll work from within to destroy you and wreck your peace of mind for a piece of mind. Spare them no quarter. They do not deserve leniency, they do not deserve clemency, they are full of calumnies, all the lies, only for you. Kill them all and their ilk, all the kings, queens, white rabbits, princess, princes in the towers, every single one of them, slay them all. They all belong in the deepest pits of hell. Only when they are there then we'll be truly free. It's just a little saddening that before reaching their final resting place in their frail finality, they opt to make our lives a living hell, fuckers. I do rescind, I rescind, I rescind, I do, and they forfeit. Cowards, fuck them.
This is where we are now.
And.
So, to be clear. It's not just about the ruthlessness of her still beating heart and the Pretty Persuasion of her Cunt, the sweetness of it. It's not just about that, we want to make sure that's understood. It's about more than that.
What's it's about though?
Look at her hands, we are, her middle finger is crooked and bent like her utmost desire to maintain the toxicity of eugenics. That will be her unbecoming. The only one feeling untoward her in any way is her own self. That's why she avoids mirror most days. Her imaginary friends are all alone with her. They are deeply worried about their safety and concerned about her flavor, feverish in their mindless hope .
The sun is about to go down, not on her that's up to us, what we do, that's our thing, but it is about to be eclipsed by her reddened moods. The moon is already in very her name but it is feeling mutinous tonight. Her fingers does remind us of wolves. Or maybe they remind us of a certain wolf. One Wulf. Me or you? Or maybe just her. Why not. Only One of us has the silver blade.
No more. Her. No more. No more chances, She wasn't waiting for no Monsters, no Men. Monsters no longer interested her, certainly no Men. This was her world, she had no need of them. She wasn't sending for them. She was done. Waiting. She was done. With them.
However, she does have a soft spot for me maybe even for you, silly girl. She could be so sentimental sometimes. That's stupid, and she's not prone to making mistakes like us. That's not like her. Anyway, we're not backing down just because she's stupid enough to let us in. Trickle of water we are not, no, more like a deluge we will be. Yum. Like that.
In the fever of her dreams, in the pitch of the battle raging in her mind, she did offer to provide us with sexual favors. And we had planned on doing so many sexual things with her. For she makes us feel good about the things we do to her. And the things we do for her are naturally rewarding.
She is looking at us. Face fuck me, Finn.
When she says it like that, how can we resist, how could we refuse. She is watery enough to coax us out of our skins and we are not wearing enough of that. But. We are not. Doing that.
However.
Still looking at us, her eyes on us, eyes only for us, for me. Not my language. Not my religion.
And we are never leaving her ever again. Where do we sign. We sighed.
She wrapped her pudgy fingers around us, and squeezed me into existence. You already exist, even if you do not exist and there is no exit, and only this hell. Though majority of men, and some women, do believe in you despite your convoluted message. What's funny is that they are only the figment of your imaginations. What's even funnier is, it all works in spite of all that, precisely because it does not work at all.
What matters is that we, well I exist within her now. Therein I rest in the womb. And now that I do, I wonder where would our kisses fall on her body, we do want to kiss her everywhere.
The dream of having her nipple in our mouth will no longer remain just a dream. We are already taking it in our mouth.
She is making some sort of noise. But with all the extra white noise in the background, it is kinda hard to tell what exactly is she saying. She already sounds a little in love with us. We love her, but we are not in love with her. However, I am sure she can urge us to get there. All we can do is feel her skin, read the cursive ink on her body, but it's in Russian. What is it with her and her inkblot hearts?
We are confident we can get her with child.
We can get a child on her.
Well, I am going to put a baby in her.
Not you though. You had your chance and you kinda blew it. It didn't work out quite so well for you last time, did it?
Move over, it's my turn now. Deal with it. Get out of my way. Your racket is obsolete, buddy, you are done with it. Find a new one, though beware, people like thinking now. Not many, not much, but enough to give you pause.
At last, at the last moment, finally after our happiness and the struggle not to be happy anymore, we finish off on her face. Anything rotten, most things are rotten in this life, she gobbles down eagerly, hurriedly. Slow. Down. Girl. What's your hurry. Oh, there's your fire. Between the swallows we lingered on her tongue. She did swallow all the new suns like the ones in the Library at Mount Char. She does. She did. She is doing it still. And then casually, she wiped our heirs from her face. Though she took off most of her face along with us while she was doing that. She wrung most of her face, but left some of her name in the wake of her selfish actions.
It's near gloaming, when she was done wintering, and yet it's still summer. The passage of time dwindling, in the dimming of the hours, she was saying something. She had strung together some words. She was definitely speaking coherently this time. She was enunciating rather nicely. Her pheromone cult intact and cult of her personality not at risk nor damaged. So what was it that she was saying ?
Tomorrow is so far away. She seems to be saying. You can expect this and more from me. She would say to us.
She spoke. She spake.
Did we know? Yes. Are we going to tell you? No.
Not for real. Not her real words.
She spat some words, best believe that. Her words upon ours feel like her breath on our face. Words upon words, still such an acoustic prayer. It is.
Why is it that she is the only one yet to see her own face. She remains faceless to herself. She is the only who hasn't seen her.
She loved us, she did, we have to give her that. It didn't mean much, it didn't mean anything at all. It sure as hell wasn't enough. Her love. But she did love us.
To get inside her, we tell her we love her too. To get inside, we love being inside her. Maybe we mean it too. One thing is for sure, she doesn't mean well. She could whisper to the gods, it was worrisome, because they were listening. Warble of her mist, the color of dead leaf deafening and deadening.
The only chink in our armor was that reminding us of her otherworldly features and very pert but human qualities takes us out of our narrative that we are trying to pull here.
It is unsettling, disorienting, disquieting, disconcerting. We surely don't like being reminded she is human too. That is too much like when she jettisons us at dawn from her warped dreams, as much as it reminds us of pulling out of her. No wafer for us. Who is riding that lone dragon?
Look, listen here. We are not asking her anything we are not comfortable doing ourselves. What we are asking her to give up, we have already given that up. Up in the air, within the clouds. She didn't even have to ask us, she just didn't ask us.
What could she separate? Really. She is quite apt at making do. She makes do with all the make belief, does she not. She neither made that, nor she believed in. She is the magic she does not believe in, all the horses are whispering to her.
Monsters fall in love too, you know. We know. But she fell in love with a Monster at midnight. Who could that be? Not you, you are too busy dealing with all those thoughts being lobbed at you in utter disbelief. So, it has to be me. I am the only logical choice. The only one willing to be a monster. No one has gotten hurt by her imaginations just yet, what's the worse that could happen. For it has already happened. She is in love with me. I still want to remain a part of this trinity. Though she is quite nonugly. But I don't want any part of this ugliness. It's over, buddy. We cannot steal anything from her now, least of all a kiss. She Is Dead. The knife is getting deeper, though she has let go of it.
So the fine folks in their finest finery over at the Kongos are right. Repetition is the key, so repeat after me.
Poison is prejudice
Poison is prejudice
Poison is prejudice
Our Creed is Cold
Your prejudice is poison
and it is killing only you
We mustn't relent and give in. Cave in. We must make room for both our dry ideologies. Must house them under the same roof. Hope that we can tolerate what is designed not to be. Learn to coexist and live together. Learn to surrender.
Improve. Impel. Enliven. Grow. Stay. Don't stray. Make ugly babies. All of that.
As for her? She'll be fine without us. She is doing just fine on her own. Already on her next voyage. Water welcoming her warmly. Everything wet and in denial of her reach. She never needed us and she is taking something of me and from me.
But not from you, or of you, Haha!
Fuck, what were you thinking. Back to the annals, off you go stupid. I'll see you every other aught.
As for her. Again. Where ever she will end up, it will be like coming home for her.
While she is here. Well, that's a different story. For she is a different woman here.
She cannot stay here much longer, she simply can't. She must leave before this strange house becomes familiar. Before she herself becomes a familiar stranger in her home. She is going, her kin is waiting. She wins this time. She cannot remain stuck in this unknown darkness, she just can't.
At least now, by now we don't have to wonder how wondrous she tastes. We don't have to keep thinking about that, wondering, we don't have to go on like that.
Her home is shimmering toward her.
She won.
She never played.
She stayed.
I won.
You lost.
Now it's a story.
Complete.
Ég elska þig hreint, ég geri það
It had been an exemplary errantly to be sure; elegant, enormous, erroneous. Happily erratic we were through it all though. Drunk we were on familiar stars too, like a lucky number that never brought us any luck.
Only rain it gave us, and not the good kind. Wayfaring by the wayside we were waylaid often. Then we were gone. We were like a nebulous defeat, graceful in shame. Who could blame us, we were always a little wayward for other people's taste. Something else was always more to our taste, something refined, something unreal, something unkept. A little wild. Rebellious. Irreligious. We were no solution, we had no solution for this, for an unneeded heart. What else can we do about this, but what to do, about an unwanted, unwarranted, an uneventful mind.
We are holding a well lit matchstick, but what's the point, everyone around us is blind, ironically blinded by our own light. This one right here, that we're holding, can't you see what we are illuminating. We only know how to retreat, that's what we do best. What we must do now.
We, you and I, we always assumed we were that errant ghost and not her. But only she seems to possess the gift. A dark knife, her fingers wrapped around the bone hilt. Don't twist it gently. The moon is crowding us, but we'd tell her we want to earn all her smiles, and we'd say to her, the sun is about to vanish and disappear somewhere behind the blood of her name.
We, you, and I, not her- maybe her, just her. Look at her, she's glowing because she's numinous, she's fading because she is not there at all. She's inching ever closer, she is leaning forward, and yet we are the ones who are disappearing from sight.
We absolutely adore how all the animals, mythical and extinct, move her in a way that is honest. In a way she is not. Like that, that way. There. Not here. The bats in their caves love her. She knows very well how to make all the hirsute beasts grotesquely happy. She does. She is doing that right now. All the Blind Ants are seeking her out too, every single one of them, looking for her, trying to see her and her alone. The remaining bees want to do her too. On the flip side, she loves sprinkling dead beetles on her frozen ice cream, she does. That's how she twists all her endings. That's how she likes it. She's trapped, tapered candle that she is, a beeswax statue that won't melt away.
I am glad we didn't get her the flowers she had demanded when we met her yesterday, that makes me so happy. She didn't protest too much, she was busy not being there. What a loser, amIright? I mean, aren't we, right? Us or her. I wish we knew her in November. I wish I could make her stay in February. But remember, how when she was there, we were somewhere else. We were home. What about her own dwellings though. She could live without her beloved grotto, she is already living outside it. Remember, how she was worried about her nonexistent paintings. Her paintings forever left a mark, either on our walls, or on our mind. A gentle impression gently impressed upon time like an egg yolk bringing out the vermilion color.
How they used to do that in the days of yore. Yoking something together, keeping it stitched, holding all three of us together. You, me, her, we all share a certain kinship, maybe even a fellowship bizarre as that is. She was always less than a friend and more than a random person. It's a strange relationship. For sure. Over, but still there. Still happening, still flowering.
It's a good thing she is not that possessive, though more often than not she'd declare herself jealous and would remain aloof and quiet within herself. Even when all of us would be sharing her rickety bed under her thatched roof. All we lacked then was the rain, and the midnight shoes.
Her shyness fouling her breath notwithstanding, it's always better when she wants to kiss us, especially when she's already doing that. So good. It's so good. Feels too good. After all, at this point in this story, we should be kissing her and she was supposed to kiss us by now. That's just too bad. We no longer want to exchange anything liquid with her.
In the middle of her kiss, she'd make fun of us though. Her fingers look misshapen and broken. Her skin always misspeaking. The rindle of it all a little misleading. Her breath brittle and colorful. Even with us, she was empty. Never full, never sated. Rarely there at all.
She was alone, she wasn't afraid. She wasn't afraid to be alone. It was just that the cat was chortling and its laughter was human. Very. But cats alone could absolve her of things she wanted to do. Of crimes she almost didn't commit. She could walk like us, but at least she knew how to remain lost. Stay gone, she would, she could, she can, she will. And her Cat knows her all too well, her cat knows her, what she had promised, her cat knows that too. Promises made to cats are best kept. They are. They better be. Blacken the bettors will be if they are not fulfilled. She was not disloyal, she knew that. She always kept her Word. That would be her undoing. She knew that as well. She was oddly okay with that. It was fine. She could only hope her cat knows that as well.
She was always the invisible middle between the two of us, always.
Churning many things, we stirred within the woods and all the boughs shook, we didn't fell her, but fall she did anyway. She fell. She lay there felled. Right underneath us. Sprawled out under us, unrepentant she was quivering. Under the covers, under us, her dress black as night was ripped, she had that done that herself. She was in rags to begin with. Though what she was mourning, we do not know, she was the only one not alive.
She was only couple of patches and bruises short of being a rag doll. But that was okay, we were scarecrows ourselves, stuffed with not straw but with Something Else. Though we were the perfect straw-man, both of us. But we didn't scare her, did we and she loved the murder of crows, she did.
In this real life, she wasn't moving under us, but we weren't amused, she couldn't deceive us, not really. She played dead only too well, she knew how to do that, she did it so well. She would lie still for the longest period of time, she did smile the saddest song. Even her breathing was fake, like counterfeit gold. She could be very convincing when she wanted to be, when she bestirred herself that is. She once made Death doubt itself and she already had the living fooled. She was absurdly proud of that, giddy even. For the nonce, she was beneath us, but she was not the one who was helpless here, she never felt powerless under us, she wouldn't, she could just as easily reach out and snap our neck. Thinking of wringing our neck does quell something ancient in her.
She is not the only one who could caress the corpses, but she doesn't have to do that anymore. She wasn't alone anymore, she didn't want for company. Though she didn't want company. Any. Ever. But we were not leaving her out of our sight, she was out of our mind, out of time, outcast of time, she was.
Why?
Well.
She was a woman, therefore she was a story. But as a story she started ten thousand years ago, five thousand years before the recorded history begin recording, before all that was false was written down in the dying false light. Stay calm, it's only cool chilled chiliads, so chill out so.
She got going and became legend. Pretty much like how the story about an ark carrying the dinosaurs got started back then, back in the day when the days were young and people still human. Tilting to one side, where that little dinghy would have berthed? You tell me that. The boat beached on the deserted sand dunes, where it could. Where it was all possible. To begin anew. Now get off the boat. But what the boat disgorged and the only thing that disembarked was stale Faith and fossilized Belief. Which were immediately hijacked by corrupt priests who would promptly sully the soul, so resentful of people who had nothing, which they couldn't wait to take from them. They had already robbed them of their wits, poor buggers, their victims were spoiled by these preexisting priests, vilify their subjects they do, vile these creatures mostly men are, corrosive their touch. Fuck them, but don't fuck them. You don't need a soothsayer to tell you that much.
Once they are dethroned, and they will be, for sooner or later they will overreach themselves, they always do. Beguiling, belligerent, greedy, aggressive, foolish buggers that they are. Fools die, yes, then why are these fools still around, wasting oxygen. Stupid they are. Once they are ousted, they'll bolt, they will. Just watch. When they are running, soon they'll be on the run, for they love fleeing from fights, do not, I repeat do not give them any sanctuary. They'll work from within to destroy you and wreck your peace of mind for a piece of mind. Spare them no quarter. They do not deserve leniency, they do not deserve clemency, they are full of calumnies, all the lies, only for you. Kill them all and their ilk, all the kings, queens, white rabbits, princess, princes in the towers, every single one of them, slay them all. They all belong in the deepest pits of hell. Only when they are there then we'll be truly free. It's just a little saddening that before reaching their final resting place in their frail finality, they opt to make our lives a living hell, fuckers. I do rescind, I rescind, I rescind, I do, and they forfeit. Cowards, fuck them.
This is where we are now.
And.
So, to be clear. It's not just about the ruthlessness of her still beating heart and the Pretty Persuasion of her Cunt, the sweetness of it. It's not just about that, we want to make sure that's understood. It's about more than that.
What's it's about though?
Look at her hands, we are, her middle finger is crooked and bent like her utmost desire to maintain the toxicity of eugenics. That will be her unbecoming. The only one feeling untoward her in any way is her own self. That's why she avoids mirror most days. Her imaginary friends are all alone with her. They are deeply worried about their safety and concerned about her flavor, feverish in their mindless hope .
The sun is about to go down, not on her that's up to us, what we do, that's our thing, but it is about to be eclipsed by her reddened moods. The moon is already in very her name but it is feeling mutinous tonight. Her fingers does remind us of wolves. Or maybe they remind us of a certain wolf. One Wulf. Me or you? Or maybe just her. Why not. Only One of us has the silver blade.
No more. Her. No more. No more chances, She wasn't waiting for no Monsters, no Men. Monsters no longer interested her, certainly no Men. This was her world, she had no need of them. She wasn't sending for them. She was done. Waiting. She was done. With them.
However, she does have a soft spot for me maybe even for you, silly girl. She could be so sentimental sometimes. That's stupid, and she's not prone to making mistakes like us. That's not like her. Anyway, we're not backing down just because she's stupid enough to let us in. Trickle of water we are not, no, more like a deluge we will be. Yum. Like that.
In the fever of her dreams, in the pitch of the battle raging in her mind, she did offer to provide us with sexual favors. And we had planned on doing so many sexual things with her. For she makes us feel good about the things we do to her. And the things we do for her are naturally rewarding.
She is looking at us. Face fuck me, Finn.
When she says it like that, how can we resist, how could we refuse. She is watery enough to coax us out of our skins and we are not wearing enough of that. But. We are not. Doing that.
However.
Still looking at us, her eyes on us, eyes only for us, for me. Not my language. Not my religion.
And we are never leaving her ever again. Where do we sign. We sighed.
She wrapped her pudgy fingers around us, and squeezed me into existence. You already exist, even if you do not exist and there is no exit, and only this hell. Though majority of men, and some women, do believe in you despite your convoluted message. What's funny is that they are only the figment of your imaginations. What's even funnier is, it all works in spite of all that, precisely because it does not work at all.
What matters is that we, well I exist within her now. Therein I rest in the womb. And now that I do, I wonder where would our kisses fall on her body, we do want to kiss her everywhere.
The dream of having her nipple in our mouth will no longer remain just a dream. We are already taking it in our mouth.
She is making some sort of noise. But with all the extra white noise in the background, it is kinda hard to tell what exactly is she saying. She already sounds a little in love with us. We love her, but we are not in love with her. However, I am sure she can urge us to get there. All we can do is feel her skin, read the cursive ink on her body, but it's in Russian. What is it with her and her inkblot hearts?
We are confident we can get her with child.
We can get a child on her.
Well, I am going to put a baby in her.
Not you though. You had your chance and you kinda blew it. It didn't work out quite so well for you last time, did it?
Move over, it's my turn now. Deal with it. Get out of my way. Your racket is obsolete, buddy, you are done with it. Find a new one, though beware, people like thinking now. Not many, not much, but enough to give you pause.
At last, at the last moment, finally after our happiness and the struggle not to be happy anymore, we finish off on her face. Anything rotten, most things are rotten in this life, she gobbles down eagerly, hurriedly. Slow. Down. Girl. What's your hurry. Oh, there's your fire. Between the swallows we lingered on her tongue. She did swallow all the new suns like the ones in the Library at Mount Char. She does. She did. She is doing it still. And then casually, she wiped our heirs from her face. Though she took off most of her face along with us while she was doing that. She wrung most of her face, but left some of her name in the wake of her selfish actions.
It's near gloaming, when she was done wintering, and yet it's still summer. The passage of time dwindling, in the dimming of the hours, she was saying something. She had strung together some words. She was definitely speaking coherently this time. She was enunciating rather nicely. Her pheromone cult intact and cult of her personality not at risk nor damaged. So what was it that she was saying ?
Tomorrow is so far away. She seems to be saying. You can expect this and more from me. She would say to us.
She spoke. She spake.
Did we know? Yes. Are we going to tell you? No.
Not for real. Not her real words.
She spat some words, best believe that. Her words upon ours feel like her breath on our face. Words upon words, still such an acoustic prayer. It is.
Why is it that she is the only one yet to see her own face. She remains faceless to herself. She is the only who hasn't seen her.
She loved us, she did, we have to give her that. It didn't mean much, it didn't mean anything at all. It sure as hell wasn't enough. Her love. But she did love us.
To get inside her, we tell her we love her too. To get inside, we love being inside her. Maybe we mean it too. One thing is for sure, she doesn't mean well. She could whisper to the gods, it was worrisome, because they were listening. Warble of her mist, the color of dead leaf deafening and deadening.
The only chink in our armor was that reminding us of her otherworldly features and very pert but human qualities takes us out of our narrative that we are trying to pull here.
It is unsettling, disorienting, disquieting, disconcerting. We surely don't like being reminded she is human too. That is too much like when she jettisons us at dawn from her warped dreams, as much as it reminds us of pulling out of her. No wafer for us. Who is riding that lone dragon?
Look, listen here. We are not asking her anything we are not comfortable doing ourselves. What we are asking her to give up, we have already given that up. Up in the air, within the clouds. She didn't even have to ask us, she just didn't ask us.
What could she separate? Really. She is quite apt at making do. She makes do with all the make belief, does she not. She neither made that, nor she believed in. She is the magic she does not believe in, all the horses are whispering to her.
Monsters fall in love too, you know. We know. But she fell in love with a Monster at midnight. Who could that be? Not you, you are too busy dealing with all those thoughts being lobbed at you in utter disbelief. So, it has to be me. I am the only logical choice. The only one willing to be a monster. No one has gotten hurt by her imaginations just yet, what's the worse that could happen. For it has already happened. She is in love with me. I still want to remain a part of this trinity. Though she is quite nonugly. But I don't want any part of this ugliness. It's over, buddy. We cannot steal anything from her now, least of all a kiss. She Is Dead. The knife is getting deeper, though she has let go of it.
So the fine folks in their finest finery over at the Kongos are right. Repetition is the key, so repeat after me.
Poison is prejudice
Poison is prejudice
Poison is prejudice
Our Creed is Cold
Your prejudice is poison
and it is killing only you
We mustn't relent and give in. Cave in. We must make room for both our dry ideologies. Must house them under the same roof. Hope that we can tolerate what is designed not to be. Learn to coexist and live together. Learn to surrender.
Improve. Impel. Enliven. Grow. Stay. Don't stray. Make ugly babies. All of that.
As for her? She'll be fine without us. She is doing just fine on her own. Already on her next voyage. Water welcoming her warmly. Everything wet and in denial of her reach. She never needed us and she is taking something of me and from me.
But not from you, or of you, Haha!
Fuck, what were you thinking. Back to the annals, off you go stupid. I'll see you every other aught.
As for her. Again. Where ever she will end up, it will be like coming home for her.
While she is here. Well, that's a different story. For she is a different woman here.
She cannot stay here much longer, she simply can't. She must leave before this strange house becomes familiar. Before she herself becomes a familiar stranger in her home. She is going, her kin is waiting. She wins this time. She cannot remain stuck in this unknown darkness, she just can't.
At least now, by now we don't have to wonder how wondrous she tastes. We don't have to keep thinking about that, wondering, we don't have to go on like that.
Her home is shimmering toward her.
She won.
She never played.
She stayed.
I won.
You lost.
Now it's a story.
Complete.
Ég elska þig hreint, ég geri það
August 22, 2017
Charlie Murphy
Did I scare you off, are you gone, your pinkness wet and fading? Good. What I said earlier, I still want to do that, all of it, I am going to do all that. What I meant, what I mean is; your presence always helped and I really appreciate it. Despite the flawlessness of your flaws, unwittingly sure yeah, but you have always impelled, enlivened, coaxed, made my words…..come. You have always stroked something in me. Please don’t tell me I killed something in you today. So for tonight and tonight only, I am going to allow you to surprise me. So show me something, anything even if it’s just a smile. Fact or fiction this? Fae you ? Hug me and find out.
August 16, 2017
Magdalena Franczuk / Fundacja KUNST.CAMERA
Wouldn't it be funny poetic, poetic justice even, if it turns out all that moves, roam around in your head is some cosmic joke, a mere happenstance, a weird by-product of an accidental thought. The sun is already past half-mast and in five more billion years it will go supernova and everything goes kaput, baby, then where will be your rusty ideologies and gods of clay. You should be cherishing the unbidden treasure that is the human clay. All that you really need lies within the breadth of your arms.
August 3, 2017
Tasneem Zehra Husain
They have been purposely telling us we are full of purpose. That's a lie. That's a lie. That's a lie. They are full of lies. They are a lie. They have been telling us the biggest lie. Big Little Lies are what they have been feeding us. They misspeak. They are full of it. They say the saddest smile. We are not smiling back, are we still gullible. When the truth is, a memory fades like an old sepia photograph. It cracks, chips, crumbles, the two are one and the same, split in the middle, they both curl up without a flame. One dies, other breathes, but both vanish into one another, eating each other's imagery. First the photograph, and all that's within it, goes away. Then that memory is lost. Neither of which can ever be found again, not even in granular nowheres.
July 31, 2017
Foxfell Amanda Alice
Mossy, dewy, grassy knolls and open roads unfolded before her bare feet, even before she drew the first breath, took a step, made her first move. She was smiling, taking it all in as she walked moving forward, strutting into the gloom of the trees. All that she saw there and even more that was looking at her, but not seeing her. All the unseen that was there yet to be seen, was watching her walk right into the haunted woods.
Carefully with extreme caution and righteous acumen, she went on walking in there. She was very well versed in this lore. The woods were gladdened to have her within them once more.
It wasn't the greatest of treks she ever trekked, far from it, but she trudged on anyway, merrily trundling along. Her breath hung verdant and supple in the misty morning air. Though it wasn't morning yet, nor was it day, or even night for that matter and it did not matter.
She could distantly hear the faint evensongs far away in the distance. What else could be heard, she wasn't inclined to say, all too happy to ignore. She wasn't telling much, she was too telling, too much, of what was to come.
But she was content at the moment, for now, as she moved on and onward, but not forward.
Though under the green flyleaf, she was happy. Because. Finally, it wasn't just the monsters that were seeking her out, when in this reality, it was the other way around. It was the other way around for her, for the forbidden was interested in Her, only her.
She was casually strolling on the dirt back roads, lonely but not alone, arms spread wide, out of her skin not inside her mind, fingers stretching forth, beads of water webbing between the brittle phalanges. But there were no trees for her to touch here, stripped or otherwise, so she strode on regardless.
However, she spoke the language of the felled trees, she did, and in these woodlands her hair were more at ease and soft around midnight. They felt nice too, like much more pleasant times from kinder by-gone days gone by, and coming still. Just around the corner. Coming for her.
Her eyebrows hirsute and heavy in this chapter. Her eyes looking elsewhere, elsewise seeing other things, those doleful eyes watching something else entirely in its entirety.
Her face porcelain white, sharp, used, virgin, dirty, about to be smashed in and broken into. Crow's feet around her eyes standing out, beautiful, she looked utterly careworn the expression on her face, peaceful. Her nose-pins double and fading twice from this story. Her swollen mouth dark darkened darkening. The small corner of her chin bore her own mark, a John Hancock of sorts, it glistened wetly, almost angrily.
Like a certain slant of light, she was whispering the kind of jingoism only the fabled forested creatures responded to. She was cackling in an ole and forgotten tongue, her laughter harsh, so harsh.
Her simple dress was quiet and as black as her thoughts. Her bra-strap visible in the gentled forest, the color of a dying leaf, and quite matching her thoughts, blackening even further more. Fearless tattoo of that bird on her willowy goose-pimpled right arm, dull and gleaming.
Her body like shape of water moved like one too, lithely soothing, a delicious draught all ready to be drunk in a single go; a wonderful blend of nondrink. A tasty treacle made up of sugary fabric.
She could handle the sorrows of her past, she wasn't surrendering to it just yet. She could breathe just fine, but she wasn't free. She twitched, shifting her weight, she breathed in something different, moving on. Straight into October she went, her scent was the pollen in the air, imbuing everywhere, and on these pages too, corrupting every dream.
She was more like the tendrils of smoke, her skin made up of roughened plumes, so she was more of a beautiful death than what Robert M. Ball failed in his imaginations to capture.
She was elated, she was celebrating in her head, for days now, going whirl whirl whirl in her mind. It was the Fete of the Dead, after all, and she was the only living one there in the dell, though she was far from being truly animated. Unnecessary Hint: She wasn't alive. But that was the design of her dust.
She was the only warm thing there, she was redundant. All the gargoyles wanted to see her in pain, excruciating and pure. Because they were feeling so generous toward her right then. She has been having too much fun without them. Even though she didn't know them and they never even met, they were resentful of her so much. Why wouldn't they be, everything was pink about her in the last days of summer. Why would they stop now, she wasn't going to. Do not quicken just now. Not yet.
She was moving too fast now. Suns and stars trying to catch up with her scrambled, scurrying after her, in her wake like she was a heavenly blade that was promised.
She was blurring every woodland animal, making the fronds slur.
The boles of trees leaned backwards, arching back unnaturally, parting open, making way for her, as she hurriedly marched on the dry tracks, covering the game trail with her footfalls, still barefooted. Hastening, she passed by so many cairns piled up in her path, on the side of the road. The crumbling midden ground trodden by her callused feet bearing witness to her intentions. She ran past so many strange things calling out to her, none stranger than her though.
Searching wildly, she fanatically tried finding the wolves that had claimed her homeland from men. Monsters. Though at times, she couldn't tell who was which. She couldn't tell them apart, because they were the same. All the monsters here were distorted by the spillage of very good deeds. She was Witch, that she knew, she knew that.
Looking down at her, all the remaining planets were quickly rearranging themselves, trying in vain to mirror her movements, carrying her forward while she carried their hopes and aspirations, in her emptied out but still beating heart that pumped more than just her blood.
She was happiness in a basket and just as tangible. She looked just darling in that decorative dress, all the swallows wanted to pat her.
But.
She looked fallow in her departure, her farewell not a goodbye. She looked like what Septembers ought to look like. September always felt carmine to her, so full of wolves, studded with night. So was she. She wasn't pretty at all. She was beautiful like that.
Although in the moment of that moment, she was moonlit, the moon was completely innocent of her. Even though she was awashed and aswirl in its bleak glow, she was lit up by the moon in the dark of the crimson canopy. The moon was everywhere, moon was in her, in her very name, moonlight limning her violent tresses even now, highlighting their madness real nice, likewise she was swelling inside the moon making it even more bloated.
She was within the very moonlight, and yet the moon wanted to rename itself after her. It wanted to change the nature of its course for her and nurture what could not be named. Nor should it be.
She was in her black tee shirt now, wearing just that and not much else, in fact nothing else. Her shirt washed in the receding moonlight was further proof that the moon was accepting its defeat. Its rage was deafening. So so bright and golden like all the lights, she loved this loss. After all, she wasn't the one who had lost the Battle of the Loos, that too in September.
Don't wake me up, she reminded the trees, all and sundry, that were not there. She shushed what was left of her. She was potent enough even here in this version. She made the journey like a real northmen though she was no man, even reached her destination, and didn't stay there like a true moken. She knew where not to linger.
The sole of her feet were wary, but at long last all the wastelands were hers. There was no one there, not even men, none there but her and yet not even her.
She seemed very one dimensional by now, but still so heart wrenching to behold. She was so well versant in their art of mindless warfare, though her accent was thick and indistinguishable, they understood what she was not saying. By burning her own palate, she had turned truly unpalatable. But despite that, they were trying so desperately to beguile her in their guileless cruelty, she was mindful of that.
She couldn't care less if they thought of her as rebellious and sinful. They could call her slattern, it matter naught to her. She wasn't insolent, though she belonged to an insolent nation, she was just developing critical thinking. Incantations and connotations, they deemed her neglectful, but what sins have she committed, against whom exactly?
She didn't bother with them anymore anyway. She could shamelessly borrow from time, she'd be timeless and in 2007 again. All the gryphons were hers to command now, so what did she care about the rest of denizens arbitrarily dying around her. Keep dying, she'd tell them. All the remaining artisanal fishermen can drown, what was that to her?
Don't let this sense of ending get to you, she reminded herself, don't be sad little one.
In the end, poison was so much kind compared to her, but she was just as dreadfully fatal. But of course, she was definitely worth more than a penny. Obviously. Her whole worth was so much more and heavy, clearly.
Fattened by the fawning moon, flattered, her entire existence was just a patchwork of whorl by this ending that wasn't the end.
She has finally turned caustic, so fulfilling. Now it ends and how. How it ends is not up to her.
This is how.
The summer is here to stay, and this July will never end.
Carefully with extreme caution and righteous acumen, she went on walking in there. She was very well versed in this lore. The woods were gladdened to have her within them once more.
It wasn't the greatest of treks she ever trekked, far from it, but she trudged on anyway, merrily trundling along. Her breath hung verdant and supple in the misty morning air. Though it wasn't morning yet, nor was it day, or even night for that matter and it did not matter.
She could distantly hear the faint evensongs far away in the distance. What else could be heard, she wasn't inclined to say, all too happy to ignore. She wasn't telling much, she was too telling, too much, of what was to come.
But she was content at the moment, for now, as she moved on and onward, but not forward.
Though under the green flyleaf, she was happy. Because. Finally, it wasn't just the monsters that were seeking her out, when in this reality, it was the other way around. It was the other way around for her, for the forbidden was interested in Her, only her.
She was casually strolling on the dirt back roads, lonely but not alone, arms spread wide, out of her skin not inside her mind, fingers stretching forth, beads of water webbing between the brittle phalanges. But there were no trees for her to touch here, stripped or otherwise, so she strode on regardless.
However, she spoke the language of the felled trees, she did, and in these woodlands her hair were more at ease and soft around midnight. They felt nice too, like much more pleasant times from kinder by-gone days gone by, and coming still. Just around the corner. Coming for her.
Her eyebrows hirsute and heavy in this chapter. Her eyes looking elsewhere, elsewise seeing other things, those doleful eyes watching something else entirely in its entirety.
Her face porcelain white, sharp, used, virgin, dirty, about to be smashed in and broken into. Crow's feet around her eyes standing out, beautiful, she looked utterly careworn the expression on her face, peaceful. Her nose-pins double and fading twice from this story. Her swollen mouth dark darkened darkening. The small corner of her chin bore her own mark, a John Hancock of sorts, it glistened wetly, almost angrily.
Like a certain slant of light, she was whispering the kind of jingoism only the fabled forested creatures responded to. She was cackling in an ole and forgotten tongue, her laughter harsh, so harsh.
Her simple dress was quiet and as black as her thoughts. Her bra-strap visible in the gentled forest, the color of a dying leaf, and quite matching her thoughts, blackening even further more. Fearless tattoo of that bird on her willowy goose-pimpled right arm, dull and gleaming.
Her body like shape of water moved like one too, lithely soothing, a delicious draught all ready to be drunk in a single go; a wonderful blend of nondrink. A tasty treacle made up of sugary fabric.
She could handle the sorrows of her past, she wasn't surrendering to it just yet. She could breathe just fine, but she wasn't free. She twitched, shifting her weight, she breathed in something different, moving on. Straight into October she went, her scent was the pollen in the air, imbuing everywhere, and on these pages too, corrupting every dream.
She was more like the tendrils of smoke, her skin made up of roughened plumes, so she was more of a beautiful death than what Robert M. Ball failed in his imaginations to capture.
She was elated, she was celebrating in her head, for days now, going whirl whirl whirl in her mind. It was the Fete of the Dead, after all, and she was the only living one there in the dell, though she was far from being truly animated. Unnecessary Hint: She wasn't alive. But that was the design of her dust.
She was the only warm thing there, she was redundant. All the gargoyles wanted to see her in pain, excruciating and pure. Because they were feeling so generous toward her right then. She has been having too much fun without them. Even though she didn't know them and they never even met, they were resentful of her so much. Why wouldn't they be, everything was pink about her in the last days of summer. Why would they stop now, she wasn't going to. Do not quicken just now. Not yet.
She was moving too fast now. Suns and stars trying to catch up with her scrambled, scurrying after her, in her wake like she was a heavenly blade that was promised.
She was blurring every woodland animal, making the fronds slur.
The boles of trees leaned backwards, arching back unnaturally, parting open, making way for her, as she hurriedly marched on the dry tracks, covering the game trail with her footfalls, still barefooted. Hastening, she passed by so many cairns piled up in her path, on the side of the road. The crumbling midden ground trodden by her callused feet bearing witness to her intentions. She ran past so many strange things calling out to her, none stranger than her though.
Searching wildly, she fanatically tried finding the wolves that had claimed her homeland from men. Monsters. Though at times, she couldn't tell who was which. She couldn't tell them apart, because they were the same. All the monsters here were distorted by the spillage of very good deeds. She was Witch, that she knew, she knew that.
Looking down at her, all the remaining planets were quickly rearranging themselves, trying in vain to mirror her movements, carrying her forward while she carried their hopes and aspirations, in her emptied out but still beating heart that pumped more than just her blood.
She was happiness in a basket and just as tangible. She looked just darling in that decorative dress, all the swallows wanted to pat her.
But.
She looked fallow in her departure, her farewell not a goodbye. She looked like what Septembers ought to look like. September always felt carmine to her, so full of wolves, studded with night. So was she. She wasn't pretty at all. She was beautiful like that.
Although in the moment of that moment, she was moonlit, the moon was completely innocent of her. Even though she was awashed and aswirl in its bleak glow, she was lit up by the moon in the dark of the crimson canopy. The moon was everywhere, moon was in her, in her very name, moonlight limning her violent tresses even now, highlighting their madness real nice, likewise she was swelling inside the moon making it even more bloated.
She was within the very moonlight, and yet the moon wanted to rename itself after her. It wanted to change the nature of its course for her and nurture what could not be named. Nor should it be.
She was in her black tee shirt now, wearing just that and not much else, in fact nothing else. Her shirt washed in the receding moonlight was further proof that the moon was accepting its defeat. Its rage was deafening. So so bright and golden like all the lights, she loved this loss. After all, she wasn't the one who had lost the Battle of the Loos, that too in September.
Don't wake me up, she reminded the trees, all and sundry, that were not there. She shushed what was left of her. She was potent enough even here in this version. She made the journey like a real northmen though she was no man, even reached her destination, and didn't stay there like a true moken. She knew where not to linger.
The sole of her feet were wary, but at long last all the wastelands were hers. There was no one there, not even men, none there but her and yet not even her.
She seemed very one dimensional by now, but still so heart wrenching to behold. She was so well versant in their art of mindless warfare, though her accent was thick and indistinguishable, they understood what she was not saying. By burning her own palate, she had turned truly unpalatable. But despite that, they were trying so desperately to beguile her in their guileless cruelty, she was mindful of that.
She couldn't care less if they thought of her as rebellious and sinful. They could call her slattern, it matter naught to her. She wasn't insolent, though she belonged to an insolent nation, she was just developing critical thinking. Incantations and connotations, they deemed her neglectful, but what sins have she committed, against whom exactly?
She didn't bother with them anymore anyway. She could shamelessly borrow from time, she'd be timeless and in 2007 again. All the gryphons were hers to command now, so what did she care about the rest of denizens arbitrarily dying around her. Keep dying, she'd tell them. All the remaining artisanal fishermen can drown, what was that to her?
Don't let this sense of ending get to you, she reminded herself, don't be sad little one.
In the end, poison was so much kind compared to her, but she was just as dreadfully fatal. But of course, she was definitely worth more than a penny. Obviously. Her whole worth was so much more and heavy, clearly.
Fattened by the fawning moon, flattered, her entire existence was just a patchwork of whorl by this ending that wasn't the end.
She has finally turned caustic, so fulfilling. Now it ends and how. How it ends is not up to her.
This is how.
The summer is here to stay, and this July will never end.
July 15, 2017
Kay Pike
We must think before we think. Keeping that in mind, I don't think I misread you. At all. It was you. All you. You rewrote all the passages, even the ones that clearly weren't yours. You changed the passages you didn't even rewrite and the ones you didn't write.
Though you are not as fit as Robbie, Margot Robbie that is, I don't own her either, your form is quite excellent and pleasing. Even if your prose has been kinda choppy, shoddy, and stodgy. Well, not kinda but hey at least it's you. And. We must feel before we dream.
But what does it matter, when it really bothers that it doesn't bother me anymore. Your takeaway in all this, the only thing that you can takeaway from this, is that in real life heroes always lose, always, even when they are winning.
The bottom line is, here's the thing I am not going to let happiness get in the way of my being happy. For, and this is real; we can't go back but we can get our Home back.
Though you are not as fit as Robbie, Margot Robbie that is, I don't own her either, your form is quite excellent and pleasing. Even if your prose has been kinda choppy, shoddy, and stodgy. Well, not kinda but hey at least it's you. And. We must feel before we dream.
But what does it matter, when it really bothers that it doesn't bother me anymore. Your takeaway in all this, the only thing that you can takeaway from this, is that in real life heroes always lose, always, even when they are winning.
The bottom line is, here's the thing I am not going to let happiness get in the way of my being happy. For, and this is real; we can't go back but we can get our Home back.
