Thursday, May 12, 2016

Dawn despairs, when every tiny grainy, pixelated little atom of my ‘perhapses’ become heavy dead lakes. Leaf-littered surface hiding eyeless corpses and petrified faunae. Terrified intakes of the limpid, indigo star-frosted dawn air, fumble under the pillow for the little vial of pain balm. Wavering silhouettes of branches, the first discordant birdish shrill of wakefulness tints the slumbering sky. A verse swells, slips, and flutters away while I cling to its iridescent residue – moth dust and crumbled cocoon. Later when I unfold my hand I’ll find fading shadow stains and diminishing timbres. I become a swamp, a piece of reflected sky, a stir of an elapsed echo and back to human form. My mouth holds a million unintelligible stirrings and embryos. The page remains hideously blank. I wish dreams, scents, memories, euphoria - that rushing overwhelm in the presence of perfectness, irresistible strangenesses - all of it were holdable, so touchably tangible, that I can carry them like a furry beating pulse, a pressed petal in my palm or a lovely bite of a fresh, ripe grape - a purplish headiness. How far can I delve? How long do I have?

Image: Still from Picnic at Hanging Rock

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