hermes
Acrobat
It?s a tremour deep inside me. Starting to urge it?s way from my belly. Becoming a tickle in my throat. Soon digging deep and crawling past my tonsils. Scraping my tongue. Clanging against my teeth and slipping from my lips. All before I even knew what it was.
It lunged at her. Heading towards the breastbone. Where her body seemed to warp backwards for a brief moment. Then she is hidden behind tears. Behind two hands over her face. Behind motion lines, heading in the opposite direction from me.
It?s my last vision of her. Hair, a jacket, a skirt, legs and shoes violently taking the pavement.
Winter. We are all huddled together over our coffees, in a dim lit cave with no heating. I think Aphex Twin is playing somewhere above and behind the voice filled din of silence. People talk and play games and write in journals and mumble incoherent coffee cigarette songs to java receivers.
I saw her with the Raggedy Anne bird. Raggedy was squawking flipping red doll hair and torn trousers, back and forth, blending some tale of self delusion into the weave work of the reality around her. Beyond that raven hair and deep focus, Asian eyes listened attentively to nothing at all.
Before I knew it, I found my self grabbing Raggedy?s shoulder and casting her aside. She flopped sideways, crumpling against a wall, still talking, still trying to justify her existence to those around her. I moved through the gap, but raven hair was gone. Already there were those clouding around raggedy pushing me out of the way, to become whatever dimension she was part of.
It?s only that feeling, worse than when you?ve been handed the splayed consequence of a had mistake. It?s the feeling of the consequences coming, from a thousand wrong moves, building up, pushing on your diaphragm, squeezing the air from your lungs, making it hard to eat. The feeling I had every few months of my job. The feeling I had now, worse, amplified to pound in my ears, collapsing my neural pathways.
Jittery, tired, expelling better parts of my lungs, I spent the days afterward, inside smoke filled, arch enclosed, stucco made world of coffee, and bad conversation. Or. Outside. Watching smoke blast out my nose and breath rush out my mouth, in the cold, radiating my way outwards block by block.
She wasn?t a raven, she was a crow, portending my death. Muttering. Crows and ravens. They are the same thing? I?m driven nuts with analogues thinking and must look up the words. They are the same they are different. Crow offers little help.
rav]in (rav?in) 1 a violent preying or plundering; rapine 2 anything captured; prey or plunder -vt., vi.
Later that night, I rip the dictionary again, from the group of bored scrabble players, realizing raven is spelled different. They are crows indeed. I don?t care. I?m shuttling things back in forth in my mind. Pills and whisky and coffee and cigarettes and cloves then burning incense and green, sandpaper carpet floors. Snow covered alleys and and the dim, luke warm confines of my bed. Sometimes. And rest.
Diluting slowly into other states. Auditory and visual sensations, queuing for nothing and everything. There isn?t. is. was just ice and the yammering. Her melodic voice, as the spider sung the man, and. the. woman. The crow whore was never there. You never saw those mirrors and puddles in the back of her head, register you as vision and cause her to flee. Never. IT was Raggedy. Sung them, sung then into existence.
She curled me up on the floor for, a day? This was back in summer, of course. Raven hair had reflected, and denounced my verbal blows with ease. I sat down and. Curled up on the floor, tucking my head in my legs. She rolled me like a pill bug.
?I don?t...?
she stopped
started
again.
?I don?t feel that way. you say you love me, I don?t love you.?
of
course.
She then leaves, maybe it was then I curled up on the floor for a day. No, I remember the spray painted door slamming behind her. I was standing, slamming it? No I was sitting, on the sofa. It smelled like sweat. hers. of course. Then, I curled up on the floor. A day. maybe.
Summer, year before. We are all huddled together over our coffees, in a dim lit cave with no air conditioning. Raggedy Anne wasn?t playing her games there yet. The people were almost sane. College students talk and play games and start journals and proclaim loudly, whatever. Just, whatever.
I?ve decided against going back there. That night is, not painful, because, I?ve no understanding of what pain is. Just pressure, I know what that is, always there. It knowing, I knowing. But pain is foreign and...
Thirteen words from RAVIN is RAW
MATERIAL. Thirteen more is RAZE. Thirteen pages away is REGENERATE. Papa legba. I own and eat them and regurgitate the refuse back in forth in my brain. It spills like melody into an unsuspecting head. IT clutters and haunts and refuses to leave.
The spectre is there, in the back of a room, in a barometric nightmare. I stalk, through the clouds, a leopard waiting for rain. She doesn?t move. Black, black, raven, crow, hair, deeper eyes, paler skin. An alien picture of a ghost. years and years. days.
IF her skin tasted like anything, it tasted like a coin in the mouth. Copper eye lids, aluminum tongue. I could cut my fingers on her hair. She smelled like circuitry and spoke to me in the tongues of dragons and silk. Union was like getting lost in steel wool. And when she left, the separation, it felt as if my brain were stripped of some organic binary code.
Back, what? winter. yes. cold and my clothes are wet with snow. I?m burning up. Fever addled, my head, feels like gutter sluice. Slush, snow garbage. I?ve been sleeping for so long. I know now, what it is. For the crow was not death. The raven was not a portend. It was brought to me. She was there to remind me. But not there at all. There to bring the fever back, to jolt me. To cause my waking world to revive, to plow forth and back in my brain. But the Raven was not there at all.
Plowing forth, the familiar gobbling of voices, and the sing song melody of one. Still creating patterns in smoke, forming her listeners from mud and bone. Breathing them their life in words. I was pushing, spilling coffee. Cursing under breath. Shoving the closer I got and the more strung to her, that he listeners were. Raggedy Anne, no longer bothered with them, stared, singing. Grabbing her, by the shoulders, placing my mouth to hers, I could hear her song reverberate through my skull.
singing into me
?Papa Legba?
My mind, turning into a lattice work. Stained glass and slippery skin all around her. Slippery arms, bouncing and sliding around me. No cold, no fever, wrapping around her wax paper skin and fluttering clothes. MY back arcs then flings me sideways and away from her.
singing to me.
?Breath and create.?
singing to me
?Expel and create.?
Acid, and chunks, bringing the world from my stomach, onto the concrete, brown paint, floor. flowing forth from my mouth. spilling. Creating. Dead and living once. Shuddering, muscle spasms, squeezing my stomach, spewing forth. outwards. In wave after wave.
Violently now, I can no longer hold me self up and almost fall into the landscape I created. She grabs me at the waist, from behind, then. Once secure, she wraps her arms under mine. Only taking a moment from her song, to kiss the back of my neck in silence.
-------------------------
forgot cw and does anyone know how to indent using ubb code?
------------------
Steve
SAME OLD STORY- Hardcore American Comedy
[This message has been edited by hermes (edited 10-24-2001).]
It lunged at her. Heading towards the breastbone. Where her body seemed to warp backwards for a brief moment. Then she is hidden behind tears. Behind two hands over her face. Behind motion lines, heading in the opposite direction from me.
It?s my last vision of her. Hair, a jacket, a skirt, legs and shoes violently taking the pavement.
Winter. We are all huddled together over our coffees, in a dim lit cave with no heating. I think Aphex Twin is playing somewhere above and behind the voice filled din of silence. People talk and play games and write in journals and mumble incoherent coffee cigarette songs to java receivers.
I saw her with the Raggedy Anne bird. Raggedy was squawking flipping red doll hair and torn trousers, back and forth, blending some tale of self delusion into the weave work of the reality around her. Beyond that raven hair and deep focus, Asian eyes listened attentively to nothing at all.
Before I knew it, I found my self grabbing Raggedy?s shoulder and casting her aside. She flopped sideways, crumpling against a wall, still talking, still trying to justify her existence to those around her. I moved through the gap, but raven hair was gone. Already there were those clouding around raggedy pushing me out of the way, to become whatever dimension she was part of.
It?s only that feeling, worse than when you?ve been handed the splayed consequence of a had mistake. It?s the feeling of the consequences coming, from a thousand wrong moves, building up, pushing on your diaphragm, squeezing the air from your lungs, making it hard to eat. The feeling I had every few months of my job. The feeling I had now, worse, amplified to pound in my ears, collapsing my neural pathways.
Jittery, tired, expelling better parts of my lungs, I spent the days afterward, inside smoke filled, arch enclosed, stucco made world of coffee, and bad conversation. Or. Outside. Watching smoke blast out my nose and breath rush out my mouth, in the cold, radiating my way outwards block by block.
She wasn?t a raven, she was a crow, portending my death. Muttering. Crows and ravens. They are the same thing? I?m driven nuts with analogues thinking and must look up the words. They are the same they are different. Crow offers little help.
rav]in (rav?in) 1 a violent preying or plundering; rapine 2 anything captured; prey or plunder -vt., vi.
Later that night, I rip the dictionary again, from the group of bored scrabble players, realizing raven is spelled different. They are crows indeed. I don?t care. I?m shuttling things back in forth in my mind. Pills and whisky and coffee and cigarettes and cloves then burning incense and green, sandpaper carpet floors. Snow covered alleys and and the dim, luke warm confines of my bed. Sometimes. And rest.
Diluting slowly into other states. Auditory and visual sensations, queuing for nothing and everything. There isn?t. is. was just ice and the yammering. Her melodic voice, as the spider sung the man, and. the. woman. The crow whore was never there. You never saw those mirrors and puddles in the back of her head, register you as vision and cause her to flee. Never. IT was Raggedy. Sung them, sung then into existence.
She curled me up on the floor for, a day? This was back in summer, of course. Raven hair had reflected, and denounced my verbal blows with ease. I sat down and. Curled up on the floor, tucking my head in my legs. She rolled me like a pill bug.
?I don?t...?
she stopped
started
again.
?I don?t feel that way. you say you love me, I don?t love you.?
of
course.
She then leaves, maybe it was then I curled up on the floor for a day. No, I remember the spray painted door slamming behind her. I was standing, slamming it? No I was sitting, on the sofa. It smelled like sweat. hers. of course. Then, I curled up on the floor. A day. maybe.
Summer, year before. We are all huddled together over our coffees, in a dim lit cave with no air conditioning. Raggedy Anne wasn?t playing her games there yet. The people were almost sane. College students talk and play games and start journals and proclaim loudly, whatever. Just, whatever.
I?ve decided against going back there. That night is, not painful, because, I?ve no understanding of what pain is. Just pressure, I know what that is, always there. It knowing, I knowing. But pain is foreign and...
Thirteen words from RAVIN is RAW
MATERIAL. Thirteen more is RAZE. Thirteen pages away is REGENERATE. Papa legba. I own and eat them and regurgitate the refuse back in forth in my brain. It spills like melody into an unsuspecting head. IT clutters and haunts and refuses to leave.
The spectre is there, in the back of a room, in a barometric nightmare. I stalk, through the clouds, a leopard waiting for rain. She doesn?t move. Black, black, raven, crow, hair, deeper eyes, paler skin. An alien picture of a ghost. years and years. days.
IF her skin tasted like anything, it tasted like a coin in the mouth. Copper eye lids, aluminum tongue. I could cut my fingers on her hair. She smelled like circuitry and spoke to me in the tongues of dragons and silk. Union was like getting lost in steel wool. And when she left, the separation, it felt as if my brain were stripped of some organic binary code.
Back, what? winter. yes. cold and my clothes are wet with snow. I?m burning up. Fever addled, my head, feels like gutter sluice. Slush, snow garbage. I?ve been sleeping for so long. I know now, what it is. For the crow was not death. The raven was not a portend. It was brought to me. She was there to remind me. But not there at all. There to bring the fever back, to jolt me. To cause my waking world to revive, to plow forth and back in my brain. But the Raven was not there at all.
Plowing forth, the familiar gobbling of voices, and the sing song melody of one. Still creating patterns in smoke, forming her listeners from mud and bone. Breathing them their life in words. I was pushing, spilling coffee. Cursing under breath. Shoving the closer I got and the more strung to her, that he listeners were. Raggedy Anne, no longer bothered with them, stared, singing. Grabbing her, by the shoulders, placing my mouth to hers, I could hear her song reverberate through my skull.
singing into me
?Papa Legba?
My mind, turning into a lattice work. Stained glass and slippery skin all around her. Slippery arms, bouncing and sliding around me. No cold, no fever, wrapping around her wax paper skin and fluttering clothes. MY back arcs then flings me sideways and away from her.
singing to me.
?Breath and create.?
singing to me
?Expel and create.?
Acid, and chunks, bringing the world from my stomach, onto the concrete, brown paint, floor. flowing forth from my mouth. spilling. Creating. Dead and living once. Shuddering, muscle spasms, squeezing my stomach, spewing forth. outwards. In wave after wave.
Violently now, I can no longer hold me self up and almost fall into the landscape I created. She grabs me at the waist, from behind, then. Once secure, she wraps her arms under mine. Only taking a moment from her song, to kiss the back of my neck in silence.
-------------------------
forgot cw and does anyone know how to indent using ubb code?
------------------
Steve
SAME OLD STORY- Hardcore American Comedy
[This message has been edited by hermes (edited 10-24-2001).]
