Bones To Bury

Hybrids my loan gunman.  Slow sinking dusky shades ripping the sky with colours.  Shake into the dawn.

Crack the cups together with a great ROAR of bestial enjoyment while we toast the end of the line.  The end  of rational thought as we know it. Run the finger down the blade and lick.  Paint with the crimson declaration that we’re still kicking.  Paint a sign: “We are still here.  We are here ’till we can leave no more mark.  ‘Till our vital ink has run dr…” drips and a prone body.  Somehow forming a final exclamation point.

Sulphur spews.  Hah maybe God’s angry, or maybe he’s shaking shit up again.  A divine, an omnipotent shit issued from the body beyond all bodies, and yet of the same image.  The sulphur spews, and eventually forms the land and gives the sea a platform.  And the foreign fish sit at the surface, and fly in their Other space.  No man’s land.  A land for no man.  Nymphs pull him to his demise.  Slowly the surfaces rise.

Act like it doesn’t matter, and in the end it won’t.  You’ll be confused and confounded, but in the end your half-remembered solitary acts will melt into the duvet, and beside your lover’s head all will be forgiven.  Try to be heartless, it’ll still catch up to you.  Try to be oblivious and it will frame your intentions long after; a picture in the museum.  The guide will give context, humanity, and a gesture to the next on the wall.

Fantastic paths.  Pass shifts.  Throw through the air, catch in the breath, in the wind.  Pass our selves.  Pass strangers on.  Fanatic paths, zealous shifts.  Come to terms and sweep across pastures.

Floozy.  Transitive.  Transliteral.  Come from the end of the rope.  Wrap the rope.  Deflate and tell the story.

Ramp up and amplify and vibe on the message.  Grant me this lapse of propriety.

Dictate all.  Words are openings.  Worlds and landscapes and washes of colour and floods of the unknown and known.

Bend temperament and conceive of our relationship in contrast, in opposition, and in flagrante delicto.

I am your equator and spin spin all the way around.  Take hold while we wrap, and the landmarks and feature points will spin too.  Orbits align and falling stars crash on down.

Thawed out and laid to bare.

Momentum.  Slide down the slope and you should come back the other side, surely?  Once slid, we’re too old for sliding back.  That’s all in the past.  Fanatics dream of your hand closing.  A giant hand and giant grasp closing slowly on everything.  As a taking hold.  As a crushing.  As a comforting caress.  Poke the sentimentality and it slinks off embarrassed, leaves only cold, drunken lust…
Footprints left in the soil.  Don’t you dare follow them; it’s unspeakable to find the culprit.

Forgo the luxury.  Forgo the key promises.  Forgo the priority of biology.  The imperative of finding and then searching in what you’ve found.  Once more at a loose end.  Play games.  Powerplay with malice or light heart.

So, you think it’s over.  While the blood’s still warm the memory’s pumping too.  In seething pulses, in rising tides and ebbing flows.

Catch me once.  I remember the beach.  I remember the fall, and I’ll always remember that I couldn’t catch you back.  I backed away and tried to catch myself.  Mid slid, mid fall.  An impossibility.

The tide receeds, the wind sings in the trees, and I sing in the waves.