"Breath of bass. Breath of brass."
Has my mind gone, madness settling in with a metallic seatbelt with glue inside the shaft she wonders with an unnatural calmness.
"Breath of bass. Breath of bass. If he could breath yet again, would you fish for a breath of bass?"
His figure is of sketches of fine distorted contours with a heart of thread. His voice like the moaning and groaning of ravenous toads having intercourse on a blue pulpy night, offshore. She rows ever faster. She spots the shore. The waves are in her way, there is a soul, a beacon goat horned, a horse in a frock coat laid to rest in a boat, her tower light to respite, but as she.
The waves with bubbling boils pop as sporadically as they grow, the lovely voice sings a song auld. It's hoarse and full of jumbled croaks. The waves grow, the voice sings. It is a language elvish from a dwarf like tongue. It's bellowed with none of the fair folk's grace, only bestial neglect. The waves grow, towering over her widened eyes, crushing any hope in her soul. Even her voice cannot scream, stolen by a tall, gangly chalk-man flying on a rotten leaf with an entrancing blue musket. She sees not the pink horse-man with a frock coat, obscured by the wave. Turn back, she silently screams to her rows with effort, the bed which is her boat feels heavier and heavier to steer. She has no strength. A silhouette of death, the waves stand as if in mockery, then descend. She is hugged into the dark. Its awash with light, iridescent, irresistible light. Magical. But it fades as she watches. Craving for attention, the colours embrace each other with fever excitement, intermingling, meowing dogs indistinguishable from barking cats, it's all a work of art, splendour comparable to the rare sphinx. A masterpiece.
And the cottage drinks in the splendour of its tongue, illuminating the darkness of the brilliant colours. No darkness would be spared from such a gaze from the divine.
Is that why she was sinking in air, above her a road, with a voice commanding, and a stag drawn carriage, fragments of voices she could hear as it passed overhead
"Pining for Jupiter, smoking stars" "And scoping mars," "Pass the blunt." "The cannabis?"
And the purple carriage vanishes in the distance, dissolving into the ether that was like the bubble she was in beneath the room bathed in the throngs of light.
The glass windows stand like sentries, cherubim of eternal security, their story inscribed all over them in perfect towering detail. A scroll stretches across the sinking room, giving life to all that was within it, a tapestry of no end in sight. Scribing wolves, howling shepherds, they all dine together, harmonious camaraderie thick in the tiny room as they welcome yet another one into their company. Her. Or rather, them.
Sashaying the cottage she does with confidence spilling over. Step immaculate. Fear is bathed with fright and cowers into shadows unseen. The storytelling owls give way, allowing her own light to shine in their stead, being absorbed by her other self. Or simply frozen by her very presence. This was her.
No, it was her other self. She was under her, a shadow sinking. On a queen-sized bed. The light was shrinking and the vision getting narrower. But she could still see. Another light from beyond her still shone, sharp and almost vicious to look upon. Like it could bite one's eyeballs. A lion without a face, only the feel of a beginning of a roar of a flame that would consume her, with the silent walk of a cat. Stealthy monstrosity.
Immaculate orange high heels, with just a touch of blooming red, the six of these passed in her dwarfing vision, with a pair of tiny hands masterfully at work, a potter at almost the end of his great pot, passion bubbling over with just the movement of the fingers. Like magma itching to be released from a just woken up beast of a volcano. It was knitting, a thin wire of plain white in a room full of shifting chameleonic colours and roof of twinkling stars and constellations never recorded in the age of sense. The knitter felt out of place in such a heavenly place. The knitting spider with three dowdy faces.
"It is opportunity or green soup. It fits a name, one you give it. I only knit it into the bow and colour spoons sparkling clean, serve dirty mouths and sometimes sing", the three faces said simultaneously. Obscured from her vision are the faces as if by an iron sheet. She could not see them. Her other self could. She ventured closer, closer and closer, her feet echoing in her mind. She was a lover whispering to another, a confirmation to give themselves to each other in the secrecy of this swirling place.
A holy cathedral. A little kiss. A shiver. She feels it. Hears the sigh escaping her mouth. And hers. At the same time. She who was her yet not of her. Her eyes bulge at the hole of light with fever madness as if will and theatrics alone will make it grow griffin wings and soar.
But she still sank. The queen-sized bed was fast disappearing, retreating to the world whence it came, and she was left alone, drowning. Just floating, a shadow in a man less world.
Mouth none existent. Her screams are lost in her own thoughts. Void, blank, soon to be filled with water. And death.
A wave crashed. She felt no water on her skin. Just scorching heat. A miracle. Mirror call. What is behind the mirror responds. It is as strange as a horse with a frock- coat, goat horns and a crown of thorns.
Sanity, her sanity dies. What is birthed is a Nebuchadnezzar untamed.
Okay? Ok. 1511. Words. Weds. Suit Sir & Gown Girl exchange vows in the presence of the priest who is mad, merde, shit, sheet, paper, pepper, Peppa, pig, bacon, Francis, Franc is English? Philosopher? Artist?
Philosophers and artists do drugs, dregs, drag, queen, Quaresma dyed the world stunned with his World Cup goal. Go! 🏃♂️➡️
🏃🏿, running back, so back, Sobek: When the world goes dark, always wear a pink see through fantasia, that way everything will always be lighter. Like that rouge on your face.
Sekhmet: Blushing so hard the rouge will melt off my cheeks Be my sun, one kiss and blow me away.
Osiris: I'm a black sun, will forever be in eclipse.
Isis: The better for you can kiss me for day after day and the world won't know.
Conversation typed on paper by a typewriter. Sarcoline colored, squirrel nut brown always yearning to type. A three legged stool. Its simple grey lacks its luster. Paleness is exposed, a woman's soft skin beneath the hem of her Victorian dress as it fought the advances of the raging wind on a midsummer's eve by the unmoving lighthouse on a abandoned Celtic sea waiting for her husband's light to pierce Poseidon's jealous back to her sea salted gaze. A woman with a strawberry scented scabbard for a head in a white kimono with a clover playing a silver fiddle made with moose strings. Delightful. Utterly delightful. The fiddle tunes caress the wind, and the two frolic in perfect harmony. The air is lemon-scented.
She feels stark naked, exposed to such simplistic complexity. Another person waits by the end of the road, directly above the statue's head, like a god's brain. He nonchalantly spoke, still gazing at the tree, addressing she.
He: A tree most alluring, yes?
She: Seductive. And who are thou art stranger?
"Oh me," he chuckled drily. "I am what you see. A friend oft seen. A traveler under the boysenberry sky chasing your egg fuzz."
"Egg fuzz," She asked. Confused.
He: Yes. Your sanity. It borrowed keys to a vintage Mini to be able to follow a train, your train of thought, which occasionally shifted into eagle roads of odd mindedness from the rails and even had a pair of hummingbird wings, to fly to obscurity that attends a mad thing.
"And is it safe. This egg fuzz of mine." She's tone of voice was derisive, even judgemental. Like when one encountered a madman spouting psalms incoherently.
He: Quite, obligatory to say the Mini still rides, the train of your velvety thoughts still fly, far off in the distorted distance. Your addiction wears you like a wolf skin, you know that?
She: Dark spirals my breath of life, addiction has me in a strait jacket, tight, that I know.
He: An exploding pineapple of emotions or a slow acting apple poison banana but no more. Such is my quest, a blooming upon us. Up on the tree rests your bliss, your friend, your egg fuzz. She waits for your embrace.
A furtive look, then brightening of eyes, then a sigh. A smile blooms on She's face, wholesome and nostalgic. She turns to the gangly man. A bow.
The gangly man approaches the tree, whispers to its trunk and taps it with his pipe thrice. It shudders, and the anemones shrivel. A egg appears in his hands, tattooed with anemones. Passes it to stranger takes out a quill pen and a parchment, gives them to her. She takes them without a word, begins her prose. Hands it to the stranger. Bows and approaches the tree. The humming increases in tone, almost cherubic in its song, yet winds howled around her. The stranger forgotten. She was the eye of the storm. Surrendering to the storm, She is tossed to the tree's top, under the stranger. Directly perpendicular.
And so there She embraced her true friend, her only friend.
The stranger chuckled good naturally, spoke some words and his hand turned to a sharp bark. Wrote some prose of his own. Thus it went: Manuscripts becoming clearer, mantras hiding in the highlights, feet wobbling, tripping on themselves, a punch, a collision from a fast moving train, the ground, the lipstick is vanishing behind the clouds, the kisses will never come, the analog husband will never smile at me, the question remains unanswered, I will never metamorphose into a bluebottle fly, I see it fly away, smug smile, forlorn laugh, silent gaze, inside yes, where they flower the flour, where white petals are flowery, inside, inside yes, where steps are a wailing accordion calling a shadow, silhouette in the moon, headless, mesmeric, with red gloves, naked, piercings on floating mouth, it's a snake eating itself, gold, lustrous, the noise like screaming lady bats, magnetized by my mum's bloodied spine, falling through that spine, its cloudy and pipes peek through the clouds, decagon houses, barefoot men of no faces, the accordion crowing there, crawling there, a little girl with a bat, my penny-farthing, veins riding into the icy volcano, hell sparkles of dragon's blood, but its up top, heaven cries white, it's all white, can I have a sniff, poker face sphinx , walking on arteries, in reverse, my face faces front, brooding nose, I smell silhouettes and curves, peach curves with smiling dryads, oh jenny, I see you again, can we flirt,
"I'm a dryad babe." She's in a triangle house. I ask her about the angle of her curves,
"Tiny as a grape." I feel faint, walking on arteries, arteries, away from my birthplace, I feel faint, they are thick, smiling with colors bleak, maidens of Thursenheim are all haggard breast feeders, blood of a white river with pop in the background, it's a party of smiles and manuscripts with highlighted curses blushing,
What is a manuscript smile?
I can't answer, mind blank, my teeth are filled with incestuous thoughts, they fly to attach to my mom's empty holes. Sex, sex, a punch in my face and the world is wobbling with a Uranus band. So why am I flying, why am I breathing hard, why am I pouring water over that giant's back, why am I so lithe, why do I despise I am not being punched more, why am I offering my teeth, I am offering my teeth, the pain excruciating, I'm wobbling, nauseous, almost faint
Goddamn I feel great
The quiz again, what is a manuscript smile. Them blushes the answer, I can't read them all, I can't read even one of them Mr. Boy, referee a Rastafarian broad, it's those hands with rings, the angel's trumpet shining its red light in the ring, I'm reborn from a lotus bud, clarity swallows me whole, the womb of life, it reeks of mermaid kings eating their sloth, fairy wingless princesses and their wrath when scorned, my voice is genderless and crawls past the city pies, pines of dubious lies, the udders pour milk upon this archipelago, i'm bathed, I'm bathed in milk expired, a sip tickles the tongue more than a thousand Leviathan licks, the daisies sing in high summer winds, reverie, the volvas are young, volva, ha. Am I wise, hermit clapping for emodin dragons, I walk through its eye which houses a continent of dreams, they feast on monkshood and smoke birch trees, pease-porridge tawny cities which hung on the edges of snow flacked mountains of grapefruit, amber marble, walking lotus buds, elevator of lies
What is a manuscript smile?
All that hate, no he jests, dead, open those eyes, his shadow is west, silhouettes dancing with sex, leave him alone, he is never alone, you'll still be here if I leave, he won't live if I leave, you are terrible, unbearable, and you are not, he's so cold, sir young-old, hot, he feels so hot, his head is exploding, plodding, YES GOD, connect to the plug, the iron is hot, boat, he thinks of the boat, told you he loves running, being chased, reeds with faces, curtsy with many grace, then you say I should leave, the chandelier, lyre, liar, they have the power, the hour, it's come, it's come, its…
Naked, buttocks warm the cold mother. Three men unseen, what hides them. Smoke, smoke and smoke from three. Cannabis filled pot laughs on their heads. Cackles bright white, little ones high & humming. Little ones' voices aged ten year now ten and thousand years. Parched spirits hold childish flesh and woman dance, reminiscent of golden days, dance dead four centuries ago. Now mummies walk and mummy brown eyes glow into jubilant wenge. "Swaying reeds will guide you," the women sing and the beardless boys in sagely tones tell. He sees it, yet partakes not in merriment. He blesses the smoke. He is blessed. Trouser rusty brown, twined at heels. Buttocks say bye to earth, fart last.
Happiness and sadness await, fish two. Blessed is one and another is cursed. They circle, and he was a blessed one so he must be cursed two.
Smoke conceals pain. He blesses not flesh. That holds dagger. Beardless boys' spirits flee. More smoke dance dead again, black babes' mummies with flesh on, all thank the smoke. Smoke knows all, village would have said. Won't for only he holds a blade. Black drips. Children of the black soil return to it. Whole village blessed by his curse. Sacrifice of all to the smoke, may he find the child with two hearts or smoke he never will. No goodbye, it's just a temporary parting he thinks. Early are his years.
He sees as he sails. a fin he sits, fish his taker. One with hands tapping the depths, smile wide. Child with hope, as blade slew her. My father will be back, my father will be back. The sea takes tears, and they drank that day in small sips. He cries as he still does in the shadow of the charcoal moon.
An omelette is what he has have become, proud of the devastation wrought in the fields which weep and the trees that hide their leaves from his gaze, but the forest no longer speaks, no more do fawns peek with horny interest, only eyes that observe from far yet near, hands drunk in the souls of men and beasts alike, and on that road of crying eyes he has thought: Should I have remained an egg, in the shell, protected from the veil with a two smiles and greetings from earnest hands? But the road once begun, is perilous, and once the egg cracks and is sizzled in the pan of fate, it can never glimmer in innocence, or sleep sound when the world dreams. It was one such journey that he met a strange man who wore a vertigo tie which was tight around his neck, a silent snake swimming in the twinkles of the stars. He called it his sunflower charm. In eccentric talk he warned how bizarre his yolk was won't in a speech that mirrored his own, slithering of the dark in the morn and he was gone, leaving the buds weeping.
Fish fled. He is a hunter. Yes, hook is hand. Bait is paint. Red, no blood. He respects life. Teachings of the wine. All lives, sins are forgotten. Land with no wine. That is a sin. Grave, warrior fights. He, sword not, goes to war. Happiness is a fish. Sadness the wife. He loved women, so sadness he took. Fate loved him not, blessed was he much. Now let him be cursed.
Sadness laughs now, as she did ago long, when wind had arthropod legs, when cricket warlocks worshipped the great She. Child.
Okra necklace, ivory beads, Heron flying, dirty white claw on bellybutton. Cloth pure as new-born's gaze, half formed breasts still erect, they wait, only her voice transcends. She sings. Child of pebble kings. Divorced rings. Envies wings. Can her eyes see green? Are they are of fern, like thyme? Singing is her crime. For no dime, hawk-eyed chief was grime. Sublime she was, one time. A war crime, sometime, just in time, she met one of another time.
6pm. 21/06/2020
Nothing is wrong. So why is nothing right. The loops are never-ending. A repetition, like a snake eating itself. Hopeless. I feel like a snake eating myself but I'm still famished. Can I leave please. Can I live please. I hold up a leaf. Peace, then write a piece, finish at least, I cannot start anything in here. Here, surrounded by these hexagon shaped faces with chins so pointy, they could have stabbed a fairy-fly over lunch. Faces sharp blue, annatto, wine, and chiffon. Flat breasted. Side swept bangs , choppy, with jagged edges and paired with a simple bun, with eyes dull brown completed their facial disposition. Faces are those of the character of pericranic Grimalkins, silent and observant, eyes black holes which looked not elsewhere, but directly at me, into me, through me in this xenodochium with no name.
Name a beautiful fairy which sashays in the wind and I'll not name the mistresses who walk not but goose-step at all times. All different faces when you glimpse them keenly of face. Tortoises blue, hummingbirds smaragdine, a woman's face with swollen lips as if lunched upon by recently fasted bees, a horse with gorgeous eyeshadow, and many other creatures straight out of nightmarish wonders.Millipedes with women lips, snails with voluptuous curves who wear their shells like fashionable hats and feast on an octopus red which leaves anyone's…
Whose tongue would not water at the sight of sharks violet that are centre circle, their fins forming circles of breathless cream colour which twinkle with effervescent light, by black dolphins with tender honey eyes and gorgeous giraffe smiles peppered with green adventurous trouts and giant meditative eels like sprinkles on a five-star meal, a coral reef to the eye? Eye see, I see devilish beef. It has angelic intentions, like a newly crowned chief but grief coloured the wings and now the beef shakes, only brief, the hand still has unwavering belief. Blast is belief, silence is god. Damn, hand shivers, contemplates in awe how starry pepperoni spoons intertwined smash into his potholed spicy chicken virgin tongue and fly firebombs in beehive balls atop a crazed glazed cock. Adversity be getting a deep-throat, blow his pot, its bombs in the throat, a showboat footnote in the ferryboat beautiful as a flamingo's ass, served without haste. For the trout, I say grace and the unicorn horn said yes. Sayonara your grace. Grace that ballerina with five-a-pint, cider will make her demons play five-a side. Six nought, ball flew straight for her deep throat. Six gun outside, bells and confessions a Tuesday night. She killed a man once, sin soaked like litmus. Witless, eye-picturesque. Iron curtain on that fool, drop dead gorgeous the stillness of his eyes was, read between the lines. Oolong or green, rather prefer Earl Grey. Lift on 13, sipping with misfortunes. Angelic snitches dared her to fall so plummet she did. Into the booth she woke. Mike on hand, band jamming an untitled, she feel entitled but still in so much pain like her ass on fire. So, wanting to help, a bandmate kicked the bucket. water lost, reflection ghost. Noose the host, hanging out penniless. Death was pregnant, brought him to life at the other side. Life with a knife and some playing cards, he never got the hearts.
❤️ Can you feel my heart tremble? Quiver each moment your finger tickles mine. Never did I know goose bumps from sheer heat of that touch, never cold like a moment without your presence.
❌ Your lithe muscles glisten with ecstatic bronze and melt upon a touch, all my doubts like I stand in Hyperion's light.
🤖 Your leg my love, a glistening tower. Perfection plum, my hands moving. A knight shivering in fantastical lands. Will I find my sleeping beauty, and will my kiss awaken her? I shudder with delightful fright.
❤️Your smile is akin to autumn leaves. Bright and colourful, melting my winter's terrors each time their spring season blooms.
❌ Your skin, it glows with the seductiveness of a full sun to the Chocolate Cosmos. And my desire, all enveloping like sin, to touch. I wash up to the island in your eyes. Hair made with the skill of Arachne, this night will be my seven years. Blissful, like Ulysses on Circe's island in a goddess's arms as every fibre of my being screams you are my love, with deafening finality. The gods hasten with eagle wings to Gaia's bosom so they see you my love, Aphrodite at the behest. Hair of finer mould than Cassiopeia and archery of finer reach than even Artemis, you shot through my heart and I felt not an ounce of pain, only more whispers intoning "Shoot me again, till my heart beats no more."
❤️ Your breath is like the fragrance of the Queen of Sheba. Meandering through the desert dunes till it smites my twin caves with life giving scent. I am reborn each time you breathe by my side.
❌ Why speak, save speech make night of the sun I see in your eyes, scorching even my timid breath. The small of your back I caress. Soft like the finest of lilies in Antheia 's gardens. The spring of my gaze you are that by each touch of your curves, the feeling that wells within, not even Aphrodite's kiss can stir.
❌ Uranus envies from far high. Gaia swoons on her meadow bed, viewing our confession of love is but a tale only two can tell. Our mortal hearts move in unison. Freckled swans in the gardens of Eden, never to be separated by passion even as lady distance plays but a daily game with us. Your voice is like my gentle lullaby each night, a hummingbird's twittering in the wakeful moments of the dawn. Your mustache the mane that grazes so deeply my fancy and your tongue as soft as a new-born baby's hands. Your kiss Athena give me wisdom save I loose myself in the void that sparkles with hearts red. Your hair I grab. 'Tis like Samson's strength, resolute and ever brimming with pride. Lay it on my laps so I can feel the strength buckle my knees in...
🤖 To pluck your forbidden fruit is to descend into pleasurable madness. To be apart from the warmth of your body a second longer is to deny me sanity itself. Grip me tight my love as I plunge into a sea of eternal fulfilment and pray I swim with the ease of mermaids and the gentleness of a Zephyrs breeze till the stars retire with jealous glances our side.
❤️ I looked into the sunset, mine eyes beholding a sight. A sunset amaranth jealously gazing at the shimmering sea. I saw it twice, side by side, your eyes they were and my night was never more wondrous. The day, that fateful day when the blazing flames of the brutal sun were but a lamplight to the candle flame my heart was being burnt with, all the while I was staring into those eyes. O' those eyes, like unto twin honeydew bees they are, seductive and ravenous in their naked desire. With wings more fleeting than Hermes's boots, come to my quivering mouth, flower shuddering with desire.
🤖 Kiss me, with the passion of a bull, grace of a swan and desire only you can match. This pomegranate fruit is for none but you till with heaving breath you cease, hair glistening with sweat, head on my satiated breasts and words lingering not on your expressive tongue. Speechless with satisfaction.
Satisfied. Are you satisfied? Are you entertained?