Just a few blips of "creative writing" outside my usual pontificating mind.
See
His paper flies into the air. And their edges cut her as they pass . . . its love flows red.
They cannot hold without suffocating, they cannot stroke without the bite of a slice.
Her hand rests upon him, her fingers pulling at his perforation. And deliberately does she print God's voice into his yellowed pages - harsh is the paring - and so too is the action of irony.
Her pen stabs, scrapes him sore until . . .
such tears cool, and color him grey with a runny black.
His paper disintegrates, and he comes to at last with existence.
The dark circles that mark leave him helpless; leave them helpless in new sight they are granted.
Only at last.
What it Seems Like
The flowers sprouted in little swirls, all diverging from one strong stem.
Sometimes it explodes like that, all green and orange and yellow in one.
But the flowers die and my nerves light flint.
The light looks sour and wobbly.
Today the heat tastes like mangoes and kiwi pieces, sharp and round.
I can see it wiggle above the ground, I think . . . is where it's coming from.
And sometimes he tries to fly with the cats.
But he's looking a little too loud today and everyone notices him right away.
Yuck, the wind tastes bitter just here.
I think I'll walk a little over there.
Ahh, the Lilacs smell like rings of lavender!
It sounds - it feels . . . soft?
Violin
notes fly fair
against the dark varnished wood
trailing glowing bits of orange
aura as they escape from within
his torso pulls in the tide of Tzigane
his form flexes in bow shapes at
every phrase and breath
a breath that sucks hot air
and air that blows out cool confidence
the rough guttural growl
a slight wolf on the "G"
acoustic distortion crackles
against the smooth sheets of silence
when grins snap the line of charisma
and the magical weaving of tone fizzles away like
water on hot metal
we wake as the thick dew of music thins
and know we remain separate from the others
separate together under the dark magnificence of Ravel
