Burning Match Wits

I have become part of it, apart from it…whispers among the smoke, with the smoke. Curls around and sets ground beneath, blending deep with evening’s cloak. The world between the strike and catch has awakened, awaiting match and all forsaken. Buried deep in night and moon, the gentle wind has joined the swoon…too late for rise to leave the fray, sure to spark the light of day. Close enough for the choke to hold tight and suffocate those freezing upon the plank. Second has left and nothing remains, save for the last breath ripped from open scream, unheard and shadow now. Did you see this coming?

Swarm

The red giant sleeps and dreams of countless smaller swarming things. Spinning webs across infinite eyes, forever wrapped upon deepest stares and furthest stars, more like rockets than not. Dead stones upon darkest seas, skipping hulls upon all degrees. Endless sleep will fall, connected and closed…for now and then it will begin again. Just like before. The red giant still sleeps and dreams of countless smaller swarming things. He is part of dreams, too. Floating and ghost. High above the beds that hold the under, tight secure and sound aslumber. Meeting in middle parts where light cannot and dark will slink away, chased by something more meaningful than eyes can grab.

Drip

Oh, well. So deep and drained, collecting rain and reflected swell, only yesterday seems so far away. Drips and bricks line your spine and stagnant time kills that thing inside of you…because of you, yet not.

The afterlight won’t fall upon your self now, not since all things considered were not…and lifted up in buckets and carted away. Up and away. Spilled into blades and green brown underfoot. Lapped up by million crunched forgotten.

Swept up by wooden breath and cried upon again, all things below now gaze around and accept the drowned.

You are the last hope.

Wove

Take this. I wove it from flesh and bone of one, finely fit to shine the sun. Stitched in time with nine needles dipped in spit and blood, mixed together to gather frayed threads, handed down from the countless dead. Their eyes will size you up, figure out your figure and make it drape perfectly from your coil, loose and flowing like veins. Their fingers will fit you for this, tracing your curves and scratching your nerves with rotting flaw. Their lips will lick and smack, cracked and thin and hanging bough.

Creep

The sun doesn’t shine. Here, below the sky. Deep down in the wood, cracking and splinters stick out. Waiting for it to pass by, but it doesn’t. Thorns reach for what holds them tight to stem. Shallow and reflected. Shadows slink across the open green, soft and windblown, waving like the ocean speaks…in deep whispers and constant issue. However this fails, it is assured. The nature of things isn’t so simple.

Capture

The nails are hammering on the walls again. Somewhat softer now. Peeling back the cracked paper that lines its confines, yellowed and fraying like light falling through the slits. What sadness fills the air, choked by the other breath floating up from the corner. Dark and quiet again, its eyes. Cold and still, like the moon is watching, covering this up with a whispered glow, peering through fogged window. It whimpers, the moon, calling back its cry when some just hope to die.

End of Thing

I don’t think it’s dead yet. Its eye still rolls and settles, locked, upon my spot. Its breath is ragged and shallow. Its grave is much the same, save for the cold earth and shoveling of sleep’s embrace. It’s dying, slowly but surely, this moment we share, hanging between us, floating awkwardly in the middle of this room, running on and out of steam, its breath I mean. Puffing out in slender wisps of damp life, settling upon the dank rust below our feet and where our eyes meet. This moment will surely pass, like blood and stone mixed together to shatter bone and let it slowly loose its grip upon this waking world where dreams unfurl. Good night, thing. Rest forever. I did not mean to kill you.

Eat Your Dust

On the road again. Crushed and flattened by wheels and sun, beating down on the bones and crunched up stuff that used to be us. Now we wait. For what? The next right. The next time we fill up and take off? Wind stabbing our backs. Remorse code keeps it simple and reminds us to mind the gap between the seats and the places that meet our faces when we get there. Too bad we’re too late for anything else besides these thorns in ours. Not much longer now until the shorter half of this begins and we end up where we started. On the road. Again.

The Light Wonder

The sequences skipped across the silver pool, rippling out like light, as light. There was all that wasn’t as this happened. And, oh, the attraction. The beams that meant to filter in and falter out as we blinked and sank deeper into our curled up and away from ourselves. We weren’t alone as the gazes fell and collected like drops…but isolated within infinite solace and held of breath…and rapt of wonder.

Sound

I had an idea. And then I lost it. The idea, I mean. Perhaps my mind slipped a little, lost its grip as I wrestled to secure its hold on the edge of the page’s length. Does that worry you? Are you worried now? Independent of this perhaps. Perhaps the knot is loose and the braids uncoil upon…up on themselves. Hmmm. Maybe they haven’t and that’s just wishful thinking, hopefully. Tomorrow is another day. If not, something is wrong. Right? We shall see. Again, hopefully.

Stink

It isn’t the same as when we buried it…there. Way over there, where we swore we’d never have to see it again, under all that dirt…and averted. The stink of It has found our windows and is tapping into our panes. That stinks too. It is curtains for us. That’s what they ordered for us. Can you still remember everything about that? Every thing in detail. That’s where the Devil is in those, sliding in on the breeze straight for us…probably winding and taking his time before he takes ours. Seems like we should just sneak out the back and make a break for it. Hide up in a tree and try for the moon. Can the Devil get us up there? I mean the moon. Not the tree. Just the rope.

The Third Times

My empire is crumbling! The pillars are shattered and shifting under the oppressive wait of watchful eyes. The city streets are running read with a wave of crackling curves and hard points. Dots and crosses hatched and linked by strokes and soaked-up pitch. I guess we’ll see when the sun rises and sets itself upon our skies. The quiet night will fade into the fallen walls, seeping into the bricks separated and sifted back into dust and such. Something moves. One has escaped. Two are left, but only one is right. We don’t think we can last much longer. We will not be the first.

Fence Din

Fine! How much? Not long, I guess. I had planned to post one blog in the filthy infected loam of this internet, but my fence needs sturdy poles and these will be they. Although flimsy at first glance, once connected they will hold tight the things I am typing. I will wrangle them. Chase them around and keep them flocked. Then I will shave them and knit them into a thing for you. An itchy, scratchy stupid looking thing. I will put it into a box and put that box under a tree. You will find the tree and the box and the thing and then you will ask for the receipt. “What? You want to return it? It’s not your size? What is your size, exactly?” You will start to back away slowly. “No,” I’ll say, “What is your size exactly?” My eyes are tight. There is no receipt, stupid. Just a tree and a box.