Every time I seem to make a mistake they tell me they won’t see me again. That I need to watch out for the Night Walkers who hide out in the woodlands beyond the motorways. I thought it was raining when I went straight over, all I wanted was a little help but all I got was a butcher’s boulevard with drunken affections and the projections of my rabbit run existence. It doesn’t help when you confuse me, screaming in my ear. The cat’s eyes are reflected in the scrounging moonlight, splitting the hemispheric sections of a tar smeared road.
There are too many hollow signs and rabbits masquerading through trees and rotting leaves. I saw a barn owl sailing through the night sky; a pale horse commanding death to the lesser creatures of the nocturnal persuasion.
It is a dark plain of existence folded into reality like a carefully crafted piece of origami. The weaves of your mind’s fabric have begun to fray away, leaving nothing but rat’s tails clutching desperately to the material they were created on. Our creation becomes a manic motif of side effects and habitual styles of living. Victims of another force of nature, and when we expect gravity to lose all sense of meaning, we plummet to a messy demise. Time devours, darkness swallows and death digests until the Gods spit us back out into the cosmos to do it all again. The wheel turns and order is restored to that brief chaos we call life.
The roots of the Tangerine Tree ran throughout the land like blood vessels in the Human body. The earth beneath the Moffatt Field rumbled like the shuddering bodies of two lovers caressing each other’s sensitive skin. Soil loosened and grass fell out of formation and a man burst through the dirt taking in deep lungful’s of air, naked, slicked with gore and marred with decaying flesh. His head felt like a marble that had been dashed into a large cluster of marbles, scattering across a pine table and rolling over the edge like glass raindrops.
The Guy pulled himself out of the pit and lay on the grass.
The flesh on his arms had all but rotted away, he was the loose end and the Hyper Intelligent Bacteria was slowly erasing him from time. There was no sign of little Nancy, he hoped she would find a safe haven, maybe a family who would take her in. A breeze blew, making his wounds tingle; there was no pain in that unforgiving act, just a robotic emotion to toy with and piece together a solemn jigsaw of thought.
“Why is this happening?” he whispered, but there was no need to, it was his fate; merciless and unbiased.
The Guy gazed at the sky above, he saw dragons performing aerobatics amongst the stars, weaving through the turquoise aurora and smearing its eerie glamor across space, delicate movements that made him weep in wonderment. He looked to his hands and feet; one by one his digits began to fall apart.
There was something almost epically apocalyptic in watching my vessel decompose, in the cold dry evening under Orion’s belt, the strangest sensation one has ever felt.
The aurora descended.
Turquoise particles started to fall from heaven’s vault like sparkling snow on an ivory winter evening. The small spheres of light rested upon the ground and upon the Guy’s weary body.
Sowing the seeds of a new world.
Though he was dying, the Guy finally felt at peace, like he could close his eyes comfortably and sleep for an eternity without the burdens of that reality looming over him. The magnolias whispered a lullaby about a lady who lived in the clouds and prayed for the embrace of a night’s dream.
To be left in this strange dimension, questioning the how’s and why’s. To experience such obscurity without the essence of being high. To watch one’s slow and gradual demise, underneath a draconian sky.
The End
Thursday, January 3rd 2013
Sedgley.
My emotions have been swathed
the pencil lead has been engaged.
It’s appealing to the spirit mind on several levels;
I've looked for that matchstick once maybe several.
To be found under a curtain, swaying softly
silent in time with a beat
and discover a disabled mentality is our only feat.
A song plays heavily like a thunder cloud
breaking west on the horizon.
Can you smell the salt drifting easterly
from the monochrome mountains?
Travelling on dust on particles that breach a certain rule
a certain test for a fallen mule.
Being here amongst cacti I burn and swim
in a melodic almost fashionable heat.
Mincing through rock and minuscule insects
I try not to sting, to step, to destroy.
The sun is beating now I can hear its dull drum tap, tap, tap
ever producing more bass
less snare more crash less ride,
with the occasional clang of a bell.
My head aches.
Body wet, dripping oh so wet, and sticky
from the salty sweat I can taste on my lips.
With cracked skin they bleed.
I need rest
I need feed
I need water forever.
I need transport home.
With the endless miles and endless walking
one feels like one’s trapped under a dome of
impenetrable transparent steel.
Metallic after taste breeds only like a virus
if one lets one’s mind become vulnerable
in these harsh climates.
Where down the line did my life come to this?
Did it boil down to the factual events
of my complacent habitual style of living?
Or did I just happen to let fate seep its tendrils
softly spasmodically under my crotch?
Either way I'm here.
No escape.
Just keep trodding to take the bait.
Same old strip, same old road
different boxes
and sexual modes of desire.
I must be delirious.
How long have I been without water?
Keep track keep time...
How can one keep track of time in a space so destitute
so devoid of procreation?
I know not the answer;
I don't even wear a watch,
Just a compass on my wrist,
And with the right kind of vision
this could be a time keeper.
But alas, that stage has not set in the part
where your brain has thirst for moisture
And shrivels like an elderly penis.
No trace of hallucinogen in
a forest of secrets.
The stars are out tonight...
sheep bray in the distance.
I lie in a ditch with dust for a blanket
and in my mind a guitar licks a solo.
Cold and hollow.
Sleep is not an issue here
for the question of whether my eyes will close
is still at a crossroads.
I saw a landscape that could cook the very fabric
of Satan's hoof prints.
This dark settles
and now it could freeze the world
into an oncoming ice age.
The body shivers and
the mind rots in a sense of self deliverance.
One by one my digits fall apart.
It starts with the toes, big first, getting smaller.
There is no pain in this unforgiving act.
Just a robotic emotion to toy with
and piece together a solemn jigsaw
of random thought.
"Why is this happening?"
I whispered
although there was no need to.
This habit turns on automatic
in these late hours.
There was something almost epically apocalyptic
in watching my vessel decompose
in the cold dry evening beneath Orion's belt.
The strangest sensation that one has ever felt...
To be left al
one in this strange dimension,
questioning the how’s and whys,
To experience such obscurity
without the essence of being high,
To watch one’s slow and gradual demise;
Underneath a draconian sky.
Underneath the Draconian Sky Page 20
