Or is it J Cobb's Ludder?
A clock told a joke, I laughed not. Tock tick it was, a modern spin it spoke. Go with the times, guess not. After all, pastel spawned women were wizened old denizens, and not swirly fancy maidens. Mustache on six, light never strained from its path into those forests, six at night or in the morning. It was odd that, that they always swarmed my eyes, wisdom naught, but ticking time bombs which never snored. Odd, I was just a woman thought not.
I had been a maiden once I suppose, in the land of jolly Jimbo Josefina joins the joy. More could be said, but who doesn't like joy, and joining it. All are Jimbos and Josefinas, men and women, in this world. Jolly. Chestnut tinged with a rare brown, mummy brown my inside was, character such as eludes my description, but I was what they called vintage. Not old, not young. Just vintage. It was its own age that, unshackled by conformity. Just had to be treated right, a countess in a room full of war-feasting, sword jousting knights on pruned prickled walls singing with scents of lavender and saint-sent song. No wonder I kept my status, and became wise bearded one, but woman. Still wizened, still strange.
Clocks should not be such in this age. But I was... ah.... ah…dear fraud, these tears, oh so bland. Popinjay with a shave, melting into the milk with a ghostly wave, colorless calls me with a hint of shade, and lips red.
I'd like to disappear for a while. Walk the straight and narrow, life a heavy burden for I, the ordinary mundane. Extraordinary bitter, I hate pills, so I walk to relieve the stress. Relive the stress. Road etched, it sings oh grace, oh grace and floats by, never a name it utters, never mine, only oh grace.
Oh grace.
Tails of sentence a forlorn classical too old for a young soul, only in distress will I transcend such thoughts, and hear the end of the murmurings I perchance sowed. Full, but it never stops, sentence unsaid pirouetting along, shot and bloodied, one-legged in a forest lulling with pruned roses, singing bliss and desist. How I wished I was a dove eyed gardener, oh how I wished such vitality bloomed in the mind that itches for blooming, only blares I hear, smoke blurry, darkness the child behind, yet the adult. Then there is I, three of us, almost like fates. Only they are two, the future exists not, she is, she is.
Ravens bite, ravens bite, only in my mind will you blight my sadness Ravens bite, ravens bite, only in my mind will you blight my sadness
Light swirling with a grey haze, darkness purple, appealing, wails sweet scents, they appeal to mine mind which hears nothing else but. A light in a cave, monster raven it is, angelic in this psychedelic world. Midnight as always, my two headed seraphim, it sees all, not to all, just all. All of me, what is mine is its, except the bag. That I carry alone, and the strain drinks tea with a fetching straw as it sits, satin pink her majesty is. Never to be worried, sleep in utter bliss, wake up to oolong, afternoon and mid-morning, that was when the convulsions came, as the ships embraced the sea ever tighter, wood jostling for flesh, it was packed and us rodents could not chatter, only hoot at the call of the master of the dark snake with no face, or our backs will sting with the freshness of pain. Snort healthy drink, misery sweet, damnation of will aplenty the past thrust. How long, the road cares not, so I don't, after all, the road was all I was focused on, and an itch I could not dare scratch, it was the road, leading me with ails aplenty and a saying burrowing itself into the heavens I see not.
Come all who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Again & again, a mantra, spoken ever softly, a marimba in my mind, keys stinging with tearful spite. They call me, yet I reach not the helper. The helper reacheth not me. The absence of all that is hope. Is this hell? Is this hell? Let it be praised if it was hot and brewing with souls many, at least company would afflict me with desirous pangs, to stay, to stay. My hell was but a child tethering at the edge of manhood, the world unseen, hope ever to reach its zenith. The curve after the high, it was wandering. Alone, alone. Hell's father without flaming clothes, simply naked, and ever alone. Lonely as the dot on pi.
A curve, slow and laborious, bag weighs me down, regret chokes me almost. Feet plod along, ripples greetings to my falu hard shoes, one foot in front, another and another. If only I had three I would be odd, but majestic.
I was just odd missing the majestic.
Walking my forehead, but gods were not all unfair, if gods have fairs, they sent saviours, dying many days to save me but for a day. My eyes they did die for, for the feathers twirled past, others tornadoes of swirling purity, some invisible brushes at my back, nibbling at rat's pace. I was consumed by something far much heavier than Utgard-Loki's cat, that even a phoenix and her fathers gladdened me not, only another reminder. I was not to fly, wings I had not, rebirth a tale to be told by two, and I was only I, only I. Journey grows short, curve long dwindles to sight straight once more, it awaits. The straight. The straight and narrow, oh how foreign those words are.
They bring me bird to claw the disgust away, even it sobs now, in mother earth's voluptuous embrace. Turquoise browed-motmot. Lovely bird, chatter for company, stunning when dead, leaves alive when plucked from its marshmallow filled honey tinged grave. I buried it, oh how favours are met, gods went to fairs, bought me a ticket for the roller coaster. Heart train, anticipation first. When it was young that was, waiting, to see if flight was hereditary, it was but short-lived. Long lived I hearken to say, mother had, but she turned short lived. Such love, hollow at its feet, shades of grey hidden by autumn clothes that brim with colour yet ever fall to the ground to rot. So soon, so soon. Quickly, dead, day after birth it seemed, disease who knew, I held her, child of bird elder, anticipation spilled, I climbed the train that day, and I grinned as it went up, and up. And up.
The zenith, fear coated with lust supreme. Speed was the bum which you saw, and you wanted it so much more. If you were but a man, feminine I was, so muscles that glisten with an ivory glow. A guy with a six pack of Heracles's blessing, grin, inviting, about to fall.
"Come fall with me," he would have said, and why not follow. It's all fun and games, no one dies from Eros's arrows on flames. See further, one kiss, one touch of the valentine cheek, and then fall. Into a fast-paced romance.
He talked, I screamed of jubilant joy, winter complete, gods blessed me, enchanted jives, Àlfenheim ever a gleam in our eyes; never had a journey been so summery. Eyes curtains wide closed, crimson lights always on, brain on fire. Ice he was, calm, seductive, taught me the ways of women he was not, seductive I should be even by a touch, chatter sweetly like one serenading hummingbird, and male will be like hair on a bear. Everywhere, save the eye. The eye that sees, he did, she saw me. He. Was it he? I know he, not he, the dark is a She, the dark a She, definitely, but she who floats. WHO? Wait, journey at an end, holding my heart in my hand. They say a simile. Literal, heart, he was one, half of mine and it had died, Valentine will never bleed, oh my turquoise browned motmot, arrows will never breach my breeches from childish Eros, the sink gets the last of the flow that nestled in my depths, but her tickling feathers, those marshmallows will eat, tinged with honey forever, in a bed full of a mother.
Earth would be hers, a mother and a resting place, and I never will, for mother I stamp on, never embrace, even now she shuns me. Her flower never buds when I walked, only thorns revel in wanton rhythm of speech, so far from fruition was I that I could fill sonnets of description, swallowed by the gorge of misery but gods defeated Titans. One hears, and one sees, mother ever far away, a veil tight, oh the river. The river is what Uranus should be before the titans. On top, obscuring she I should see, and I see only the river, not Father Sky, but her, and many...
It has no end, no left, ever straight, and wide as Niflheim's mouth, and ever increases. Why not, the source ever cries hot. My tears are never cold. Of desire they wail, of hopes lost they wail, oh such a river as to obscure even light to flow through, tides unseen, only ripples of fate that haunt my every step. I feel the misfortune I step into, each step a guide tour, to what I know and wish not to know. Never ending journey with the orb of light ever so close, ever so grey. The darkness purple appeals to me, after all, it is a multitude, and it is me. Why not I feel warm in my own skin? Turquoise-browned motmot feathers. Paddle my fears away with your paddle like selves, only the sea seas me. Only the sea. A reluctant best friend, and I know why. She is female, she is something that stinks not, she is me, second head on a female Janus, forced to share my stench.
Overpowering. Destiny.
The feathers brushed it, destiny, where they trying to stop me. Was the feather tornado not graceful, not a pinch blissful, but loving from the closed heavens. Might she want me to move on, walk the crooked and wide once more. Sorry.
They do down there, when I look. Not hard, just let my head hang, no effort, even less, and I see all the effort. One to shout, grasshoppers blaring, forks out of snails' shells, source fingers, smoke smokes, and lion headed beast cops moan. Accidents sigh, more casualty, will I never rest from recording it asks, as piano with elder Cyclops laughs, three giants in one, three eyes. Red eye the cause of misfortune, green to deceive, the other who cares. Penning-farthings pass by, crack-eyed visages of man free. One is thinking, he waits at cyclopes eye red, doctor says it's her fault, I am potent, her knot not. Out today, her in, another one, oh how I have waited for her voluptuous embrace, praise the heavens for barrenness. Survivor wanders out, he is another one, praises his high. Boss was inside, sacking in order for him. He knew as well as she did, eye contact unnecessary a twinkle and a dash away. He had cost her a promotion, going to seal his end. All was to be said, but no one knew. Two did, only one now. Cost lot, diamond from her hand to his, she would be found, sockets dining with ever-eager oil, gleaming treasure my pocket you embrace he said, and may you be deep, as my chances. As my other pockets will be soon. Promotion, and he praises.
High up, am I the goddess they salute, for I look down?
Straight and narrow, how you see all that is wide and crooked, just because I was past the curve. Destiny, destiny, if she were kind my load might have been drowned and I free.
The raven knits and knits again, yet the bag ever has holes, patches ever show, skill not enough. What is it that ebbs and glows inside, ever thirsty to embrace the sea, yet destined to be a non-entity moon on the universe's scroll till metamorphosis spills it. Oh, how decisions are like two boars in the same street, galloping at full speed with mule legs, and a robust ass. Ever guaranteed to crash into me, and I, if blessed, privileged to see its ass. Ha.
They love me, forests must be around here as we speak. I can't see, eyes on the ripples, stress less, drown the mind, as if I could. I would never have anything to do with chess, holding a piece always seems to haunt me even in this discreet place, bag almost bulges with that thought. Knight, can he be her knight, mine, in shining armor, though dark and dreary, I walk the path eerie, straight and narrow. Bag heavy, ravens knit folly, clouding my mind, door near. Destiny the river, I follow it, not it me, and feather brushes past it, something beautiful in a world overcome with pointlessness. Choice hoarse, the voice aches to boom the sorrows away, strike with the lightning of passion, but alas, the feathers pass away, fleeting. Straight I tread, closer to the dot I get, question mark inverted, curve first, then the narrow. Sickle embrace.
Bag spills uncontrollably, beaks wail jealously, they are beautiful these button shaped gems, the beaks crow in my mind, shapes ornate and colors rare. Wenge, drunk-tank-pink, goose turd green, they wretch uniqueness, vomit floating away, even as they cause only ripples. One too many, they are ants with a giant's face, the ripples sound everywhere, invisible bells in my shattered mind. O' why let them float with their lover sea from my sobbing cheeks?
They have no names no more, only functions. Sleep well, eat heartily, even hear pianos sound Gymnopédies no 1 over and over again, till the classics tire of old tunes, and they be new in thine mind. Filtered, Zeus, fly on clouds untamed, I'm an eagle, brazen with glee, flying to lands unseen, where toads mutter prophecies, sheep say howdy with wolf made hats, and fish feed with the sharks on the kind which walks on three legs and wears a scarf. A double-edged sword at times it gives me these heroine pills, woman warrior they make me, and I slay dragons, in a battlefield that is ever red. Ever waiting, even before the first of my hand plucks into eyes saluting me with their gaze and fearless unto the death. It's a field of monstrosities I cannot tame, I cannot tame. They are a mirror, and disgusts clouds my face as through the red haze, I see myself buckle with confusion, with no flaming sword or neighing steed, no Valkyrie war cry or the thunder that booms on a Thursday, Thor's day. None, but red fields, I, and ever a door that exists, ever so tranquil and still.
Emerald with a tinge of silver, sables ever imprinted on it, with the lush scent of exotic leaves that gaze at me with smiles that pierce. Belladonna, they whisper I am a beautiful lady, for they see inside, nothing is hidden, for on the battlefield all lies are shown, weaknesses exposed, and confidence humbled as one overlooks herself murdering what she cannot kill. Thrust in deep, sword sings, march to Valhalla with praises that send the Valkyries fleeing to Freya's beautiful bosom, and cats aplenty. It is because they see me truly they say belladonna.
It is because they are sarcastic they repeat after and after, even as the grey light hums a tune so bleak it speaks of life in the ever-shade, they still sing, and hands claw at me, shadowy and sinew and bone jutting out with as much ease as one's eyeballs seeing upside down crucifix holding, blood bathed hanged mercenaries in a holy church, all is seen, all is never hidden before the door with crooners sarcastic. The straight and narrow, road a question mark inverted, ever walking towards the dot that will end the story, hardening climax, only to be smashed into pieces, clay and bronze and silver that lay desecrated by hammer on sighing soil. And they move again, inevitably, forming once more to a being that stares at I, and stares through I, into I, and with I, oh my, hi.
Worms beloved, host established, sea of ebony flowing with colors mixed. They
overflow the sea yet never are enough for my mind. Complex, my sorrows and cure mingle. What is birthed? What is birthed?
A lily and a fish, a petal and a bitch in a sea of sanguine, infinite search for a finite speck in a dusty haze.
Who is me? I will invent, think, re-think, watch my thoughts in ink, maybe when I'm drunk on a fabled magic fruit I shall have my answer. Maybe I might be a snobby hunchback on horseback with a six-pack dreaming of a solar powered sun-bathing swearing Cadillac.
Instead I am an empty backpack full of paranoiac membranes. Strains on my brain, pain with little gain. My chains grow tighter and tighter each day.