Tela ▼ The boat rode low in the swamp, breaking wind through a thick layer of moss that kept life at an amoebic level in the dank depths, small enough to enter through your mammalian pores and collude with your plant-based being. To make the tendrils of eonian instinct photosynthesize, joining the hanging vines above and clinging to the web of cyclical stasis, ambient survival, infinite progress. Hot and cold and hot again, from speck to fish to reptile hen. And, still gliding, to the porch, where invisible rhythms beat hiccup beat around beat on, beat low and proud and true to the movements of men and fowl, for foul men and their myths of material madness, beat military machinery, beat mental artillery, beat bellicose bongos for nymphs imprisoned, for battered women, for buried children, for burnt villages and shattered victims. For hollow homes and graveyard ditches, rebar crowns on rubble mountains, poisoned fountains, tribes displaced to shanty horizons. For more, for myth, for ever. For evermore martial marriage in pumpkin carriage, when the whip cracks midnight the hand may sting but the four-year plan scuttles through ticker-tape, new face, old blur, the cold shoulder of bootlace entrenchment, the hairspray resentment, loose teeth and lips betray sunken ships, shrug replaced hips, meet swollen fists, empty hats and god-filled lists. And, gliding on, the house-boat meets twilight, where the smoky veil withdraws to reveal the glowing butts of a cosmic jitterbug, a firefly dash, starlight zigzag, invisible vortex on the dimensional edge, proverbial dread, living book of the dead. Where the trees weep warm into moonlight deserts, feed iguana minds and dreamtime leopards, zoom stardust molehills between blue and red marbles, her thumb strikes core to core arch-rivals, make planetary alignment and man-thought marvel, explode eons back, to again unravel.
Posted on: Fri, 07 Jun 2013 19:58:15 +0000