II.
A dank mist in darkness, of constricted hallway fettered onto a sphere. Not like a fickle dot afloat, tirs a there. Notice: porcupine rapines. Femme du lit in her skinny grimace. From where I am, the bastards of windowgrills appear rather convulsed. And like lambkids, of adequate wanderlust, who are everferrying towards their mothers- they gather at the tails of the elderleast; lack of standspace compensated for like a clever infighting. Hands in hands, tightly gripped. Lest one beloved child, even if wouldbelamented the least, should trip over vortexes of this stormy night. To become not as one? Unsuspected stranger with no inclination, I have been watching this merry family from a distance. See birthing slopes wriggling and falling in place; mothers' still procession and children's naivities. What do I know of their estranged husbands and reclusive fathers? Hmmph. I remember the familiarity of a light, not here— another distance, lying by me lonesome. Pneumonia stricken. I was a victim, counting the hasarderie between sleep and waking consciousness. Time itself, it seemed then, had sprung free from the husbandry of the Gods. A legline quarry open. Its agonising glimmer was mustering at a negative depth from the horizon parching and forming in front of my eyes. And from my amiable recline I could see: the sequined endlessness of the nightsky. Through the asymptotic axis of a palmtree, mystifying and bold like some monolithic Sultanate miraculous architecture. As he focused on the holy screen, was it a domineering vampire basked in twinkles under an Apollyre moon. "A fuckwit sheen.." Rummaging and letting go, what I recall now foremost and fondliest, other than that artificial light. Was a lone starre indebted to fragment of ample ambient clouds persistent therein. It was floating eastwards, soon it would have come to pass the rigidity of my windowlane. Would it have left me— the regret of disability to chase its trajectory? Or it may had: that while I was immobily affectionate on the bosom of my bed— what if there came to pass, in a loneliest of landiness, where none could begin to rile an anchorage— an even greater speckle and thump of clouds' gambit? But while it is still within my shore, I can— can throw my eyesores and some. Incense on its back cauldron. It took the feelings from my eyes too, I had closed their lids. Corporeality of their skinny grimaces meant nothing then. Absolutely nothing. Stark blueness of the nightsky, on the other hand, was a particular one. Conspired much by the mirthful moonoon. Rayed upon then a feeling, of latching onto something obscuredly displacing— suppose another such night, of runedusk now. At the central old cemetery, you had been there all your life. Then it pinched then turned under nightlyspikes. And you were desperate to find familiarity. You reached, looking for familiarity in the timetasted fabric of your clothes, with senses keen for snakes. On that bump a hurdle— the irrational regret of not having brought along a bottle of carbolic acid. And then was a pending-echoed, on curved earth supinely. You were as Psyche in a garden of fractals, no? You forgot about the footsteps building up behind you, or you did not want to remember. Your hands were tucked onto that hectic stream. So firm. That their reciprocatives gave in to the fall with you. Almost? The muffled thud on the back of your head was confusing such; with no hostile reflex provoked. Rather pure bewilderment. Like a mother yet not aware of the grief of child's passing. The wooden thud then spread and crackled in a swift bow, like shuffling of tarot curds. Continuum of spacetime whacked into a tantrum. Sparrowed into motions and rotations. Your head was of sponge vestibules, over their pneuma Chronos baited on. Horizonscaped cessation of tarrots. Once there was a shore. Sweet mother hanged from a tree there, in the furthest right. Stand in the wet sands— where waterness of endlessness drank from starcrania. The sinks of your footsteps will not threaten anyone, the heels are in their place. On this side of earth there were none tending to see anyway. See footprints that meant to say, long legs walked from the bottom of the ocean, to here. Man out of time and its dilemma. Out not to gaze upon the water's recline; but a pint of light amidst the other side, of earthiness, buttered by rainwash daisies. And my eyes could see now, as far as the loneliest of stars scurried off to immemorial distances. But man from the bottombeach passed years. In his lapsed promenade. And only stopping at places. He stood. On fine granules. Hot asphalt and sojournful clay. Many else. His bizarre feet, like pompering sheets of musaceae, would shed their tired skins there. He stood for so long. Observe— forms of light disperse yet again. On this silent night you will not see any old man coming towards the beach in archaic steps; with worn but plumply kept hurricane. He never pleaded anyone. But there was no one here now to tell you of beach mother's wrath... Who you be? Steam of unnamed trenches? Glints of crushed ovary? Oh it is you. The remote viewing fiend! I still ask where you from in this vast stomata what are you? Your legs and your feet. I seen such thing in only you. But I must tell you. Livers off that village all caught up in their webs now. And the hermit? You stayed at his place once. Woodshedded. That porch could be where chickens loitered idly. But none, no wife even. Amiable thou no? And night descending on that isolarie came like legions. With crisp lemongrass tea and his amphibian gaze sternly. Night burst inside thee head in secret shades. I know that. I know of the tales he relayed. All but in one night. Only knowledge never grasped. Who are you? The recluse spoke not a word than necessary to villagers. Yet his creek croaked with sweats and flints on that night. Your magorial projection and your crude feet upon this land. Do you know what became of him? Fucktard. He is spousal of mushrooms. Lain on the water yes. Uphill; waterfreckles glow with a luminous intensity. Shaded by greeneries and shrooms burnt like polaroids on alcae. They will not disclose to you of his location. Nor will the fluttering gasbugs. Tried to open the pores I did! Like dried threshed pus in reverse exodus he has retreated back to pod. Sternum amphibious! You will not see him now starkly still by the banks when the moon was overhead and around cavernous foliage that oozed cicadous. Fishing. Under the forlorn tree you once seen that apparitionlike view and the stream and its vistas come let us go there oh Don't. Turn your head now you are hovering goddamned I am withering away these upscaled delevators turn them away! Turn.. I were a prisoner I were a prison I were a I were. I.....
Funtitled #49
In memoriam Arshile Gorky II / Gagony