||[Mar. 28th, 2010|07:54 pm]
"don't we all need aspects of divination, eh?" she says, rubbing her left eyebrow. sandpaper twirling against carousel toys, ring around the rosy. broken chandeliers curved in the cartography of old religion - maps lined with geometric angles that didn't fade with the wind. maybe something stayed, burnt into the crevices of the floor. "tick, tock, tick tock," fingers drumming, pressing a kiss to the fingertips - brought together like a rose. |
she let the ash slip away from the spaces between, skimming the ground like a lost traveler, pointed arrows from a compass spanning ancient rows (eyes set to the front, casual curtsy to the unheard incantation, small smile to the memory, bashful or sinister, hands fluttering like birds, places neatly at the curve of the back, fingers weaving in and out, nail scratches like their own geometry against the skin.)
"maybe we can redefine. polish swords and curve triangles into bark, reason see as reason do?"
"maybe we can just polish swords and keep away the heart."
"piece by piece into a box, wouldn't it be?" bitterness, harsh, drunken apple speech, rolling eyes upwards, bitten mouth.
another shrug, slowly, deliberately, carelessly, "however suits a fancy."
"keep up the process for however long."
no answer. no question. (would have liked to have been one. maybe it swept away. weeping willow brooms. wind in the hair and in the eyes, ship afar from sea and sunken in a landmine. umbrella tree a fitting word.)
a yawn. "press on."
ships don't answer. just creak and sigh like rocking chairs, even without the sea. the wind seeks shelter in its synapses.
"tomorrow we will hum ourselves a song."
"you do not wish to swallow the world whole."
"no, i merely wish to devour it, is there a difference?"
hums. smiley face tree, sad tree, lifted tree, skyscraper, she steps on the dock and stands on a branch, turns counter clock-wise three times, laughs, whispers a wish. watches it leave, sink sink into the mud of the ship, sink sink to the roots and mud and forgotten river trails, underground worlds over built, deafened to any voice. hums. spins the blade. can't uncover words from the earth, can't undercover the core without destroying the ground. no super-slide to the bottom to chat with ghosts. only previous chasms, broken glass and hidden vegetation, blind worm bodies and passing growths. regrow.
grass like swiveling skirts, wind a widower. (can't tell who is the tree this time, flickering back and forth and back, the world is not nearly deep enough to fit. ) music second music first it builds builds up on a stanza there. nothing here has words but for music. instruments of wind and leaf, of closed and open spaces lingering between one another, within, in crashing seas daring gravity, not feeling their own weight as they fall.
(can't tell whose eyes these are. black like a duet, or red, or green, or filled with color or painted out of it. can't turn myself into a question mark. can't write commas because the road grew ungrammatically. )
no voices but a chorus. left to linger as it sounds so mournful, or alive, or everything. maybe nothing. lopsided infinity, spinning like a beer bottle. can't dive. no exit north or west or or or. (cat-cradle organs. twisting like a snake, or going once going twice, spin spinning like a driedel. ) more parenthesis like swing sides, no claustrophobic symptoms melting in the mouth. only air and not hallucination.
i'm too tired to be bored. i'm too bored to be tired. i've read and written my gibberish, i have finished books and i have chased tails and i have meditated in medical issues classes that are not my own. been having the Pocahontas soundtrack on repeat. it made me cry three times. (i can't rise enough hopes, glass blowing tricks can shatter, one five sick six what ?)