25 May 2010

Of Bishopbriggs and Corvina Veronese [Or Red Queens and Garden Trowels]

Old stone,
Ten thousand years and you're still on your own.
Don't you love,
But you love it that way.

In quips we've come to this, both pages slightly worn for finger strokes and curled ears, these seven stars of deconstruction, the splinters flinching from the horn crease crackling in static endeavors. Vox lumination in the margins, Pollock splotches bleeding indefinitely from every incremental integration of cat paws, you've all crawled in the paint dragging the edges of your psyche through it. And every streak is framing fossils for dust to draw into, brooding malleable gashes and black heart processions.

Oh, these walls breathe epiphanies in destruction, the overexertion blamed on you, breathe endless stories wracked and wreaking of the taut-out, straw-blonde building every human loves to do, of golden spirals burning in their dreams guilding hands of lovely inference leaving them to draw out the slow grown plans called con

And just like you I built. Deep bled floors grailed in mahogany stretching through the rooms, shiftless and subtly soft for each step of every guest, the ghosts preying on the paper walls and wills strung to ribs that I had once framed the absence of a heart into. They filled it in, these mâché bees in queer scarlet guises humming for the cadence, sailed and settled and sealed the host of souls emptying their voices in the raucuous laughter still lighting the dolour. Gaseous burst of gluttony catharting in blissful croon of combs.

And they were gone.

I have dreamt a number of awful dreams these days. Faded and half-alit upon sleep, each one slipping into the aether away and under all the weariness of brow and frown-fallen heart strings plucked out. But I don't remember their names. I don't remember their weight, their tumbling lymphatics that left me slim. Long faces and blue veins crumbling in silhouette, just day-old words navigating in deja vu. I am left settled on all accounts. With impressions of having been absent.

But only impressions.

Tinder frames and lovely florid blooms of flaring impressions.

In the end you leave. Gentle sieves shredding the semblance of each other.