Day One: Belongings

Encircled in blades of grass, my mind racing.
I am frantic, imagining the line of silence between light,
and the lighter light.
Every image is a recollection of two hours, differently arranged.
A vague picture of walking, of leaves crunching underfoot, small sticks
being seen and stepped on simultaneously.
IS THIS WHO I AM?
Ventures, feelings, longings, aspiration, right-and-wrong.
Every boundary has been crossed, except that single line of silence.
For now, I believe I'm hearing the sounds around me.
Light sings vivid symphonies, my senses are breathing in everything.
The cawing of distant black birds, the soft hum of the woods, the irritation
from sticks and coarse grass, the bursts of blue,
and overwhelming white radiance burning through the leaves above me.
Today is Thursday.
My mouth begins to tremble, I lick my lips
but the rain brings no satiation to the desert.
My body will get used to this.
All of these colors, these sounds, these feelings, these smells.
They all belong to me, and their name is Sepulchre.

-End of Day One.

"Cling"

She wrote in a note she discarded upon an audience of stars embedded into the dull grey-white of the sidewalk. There is nothing to cling to anymore I guess I whispered into her ear. We kept it professional and sweet, with the promise of ran and the cold nights of the Sierras as conversation, a closing eye was lost on the privilege of a face turned away vulgarly from the sweet aroma of personal communication. There is nothing to cling to anymore. But she didn't hear it, her voice was lost on preaching the gospel of meteorology and other topics of small talk or laughing, or singing along to songs she wont let herself empathize with.

There is nothing to,
She is nothing to.


I am nothing to

Cling.

Cling.

Cling.

Forget about outpourring and downpourring, and emotion and love and memory and faithfulness or truthfulness or high definition audio and
Cling.

You are wrong

You drown in velvet.
You sing songs
with words.
And paint pictures,
with muscles and bone.
The ends of your mouth,
are the ends of the moon,
the end of the world
and the end of what I wish.
Your night is escaping,
and the sun is rising.
As a bright as a star,
but as brittle as earth.
Drink darkness.
Drink speech.
Your image bleeds
oceans.
The right shade.

Journalism

Receiving
Responding
Perceiving
Unbelief.
This doubt is a lump
in my throat, I can't swallow.
Deception
Relieving
Conception
The truth is that they
are all just the same,
with a replaceable face.
And you are no
exception,
deception
conception.
Execution.

Common Ancestor

Part 10.


Speeding,
her pale body's a race.

Here eyes are the moon,
but she calls them by names
of teeth.

Rainforest in her head.

You're so green baby.

You're so green.

The Butterfly

"What a lovely morning," said the butterfly, awakening from her distant thunderstorm slumber. "I have had the most terrible dream, a dream in which I was a worm who inched through branches and along leaves." But upon seeing herself in the new light, the Butterfly began to grow worried, because the harder she looked and the harder she tried to imagine her wings were gone, the further they disappeared. She could not help it really, but stood in front of her mirror and tore the colours from her body with every word that she was speaking. "I am not the kind of creature they want," She would say or "How much can change in a night? When I slumbered last night it was as a caterpillar." The longer she stood there, the more the colours began to fade on her special wings and the more they began to shrink until at last they were a dull grey colour, and no bigger than either of her hands.


But she could not make them disappear, and the next mourning, when she awoke the wings were just as big as they had been the morning before. Leaving her house, the butterfly discovered very quickly that she was hated among all of the insects for her captivating beauty that all of the people she thought were companions, had a deep desire to tear the wings from her back.

While she was walking under a tree, a hornet sat on the branch and when she passed underneath, tightly gripped her wings and took off.
Looking down, however, the hornet saw that the wings were still attached to the caterpillar and around them lay 6 black bristle fibres he discovered to be his legs.

Before long, the insects had all discovered they could not tear the wings on the butterfly's back from her body, but the garden spider had an idea. He had seen what happened the day before and knew that the only way to make the Butterfly's wings go away would be to convince her they didn't belong on her.

The next morning, the butterfly's wings were even bigger and the dull black outline of such had been visited by some deity, who had graciously blessed it with new white and orange spots.
She was stunning!
Moving, though, for the first time that morning,
she discovered only contempt from her insect peers,
who laughed and mocked and sneered,
and tore the poor animal down to the level of worms. When the day had ended her wings were visible only to the gnats and her colour had given the black sky a vivid quality in light of its bright dullness (?).
She was once again a caterpillar,
but she is a butterfly.
You are a butterfly.
When the morning found her she woke up as a caterpillar and thought about building a cocoon out of makeup and sex, but it is that cocoon which changes the butterfly into the worm. She had told herself her beauty had been in the wings but as hard as she tried to remember what those glorious appendages felt like they would not reappear and her colour would not return. She spent nights trying to dream of the colours that were now utterly imperceivable to her during the day and upon waking discovered the colours which appeared so bright in her dreams had only been tones of grey.
She was now in a spiral, where every day meant a new sad high. Every day would bring a new standard of depression that the only plan the next day brought was to shatter the standard and replace with an even more inescapable anguish. One day, the depression became so great that happiness had seemed to die inside of her, instead of merely rolling and choking as it had been before. She lay on a piece of bark that had fallen off of a tree unto the flowers it lowered.
A bird which had been perched in the tree on a branch, flew down and grabbed the caterpillar between its beak. As it reascended and the piece of bark became a brown stain on the coloured background, she heard her skeleton crackling and was lost in the sadness of hope's final death. "You are the most delicious butterfly I have ever consumed," sad the bird with it's tongue.
And the butterfly was a butterfly,
and she knew it.
It was the happiest day of her life.

The Spider

Coagulation, a ball of blood had been rolled in the throat of Adam and Eve who were entwined beneath the large cocoon. As the two blessed the carnal, the cocoon which had been growing slowly for as long as it had been a part of existence, began a subtle, creaky expansion. Without fair warning, whatsoever, a vile filthy aperture began to appear in the spindled surface of the dripping sack suspended above the two
Movement
Heat
Sex
The aperture began to grow at a rate, contrasting the speed at which the cocoon had grown from the size of a mustard seed to the volume of a thunder cloud, at which is currently held itself.
As hands tightened, and lungs flexed the cocoon began to fall away, in sheets too thin to reflect any light and they were hardly seen by the distracted couple beneath then. In its wake a giant black form hung ominously from the same existent thread the cocoon was once suspended from, and the once believed magnificence of the pod was diminished as it floated to the ground in sheets that were thinner than the outer most layer of human skin.
In the now black statue that hung, two yellow bulbs became visible like a far off automobile turning on its headlights, and the eliptical form of the beastly shape grew with a portrusion of eight hairy appendages, the thickness of a sidewalk or a treetrunk each. The bulbs had now focussed downward, and as the head segment dramatically began to loom over the two, the legs planted themselves on the cold carpet, surrounding the pair in a cage of black hair and bone. The more furiously humanity moved, the larger the creature grew in relative view for it was only getting closer, as it lingered over them, the once solid form now three solid forms and eight tree trunks began to salivate at what it knew was in its immediate future.
Without so much as a gasp, the humanity was torn from itself by the jaws of the Spider, leaving only a stain of blood, the cocoon shedding became moist in.
The blood dried,
we keep moving.