I don't know

[robinson]

The locusts rained down on fields of yesterday, chewing the worms out of tomorrow and leaving nothing but stubble of the present moment. But the present moment does not abide anywhere so the dragon came slowly into sight , flying low , searing the swarm with a millennia of hope.

 Misplaced professions dripped down the face of Dali clocks, while lost concepts slid into each other. Paradigm broke and paradox reigned in the breath of a hundred seconds. The dragon pursued its course up the river bed, burrowing under the soil and flying high to the core of the earth. Filling the centre with depression and anxiety it spat joy and forgetfulness into the bedrock of continents being born to mothers of prayer.

  The oceans turned to stone and a billion seconds came to the needle point crying for their lost innocence. No drums beat to this parade, nothing new or hopeful filled the turrets of nuclear fission. The words chewed their feet and the cats licked up the thirty years of war. Remembering nothing , valuing the un-valuable, the grease slipped of itself and octopus coils enveloped the parabola.

  She will sing to you , the sipping wine will creep , the lion roars under the dragon’s wing and smiling temporarily the mathematician finds his result. But ultimately the meaning of life wrestles in parallel paradox paradigm paragliding around the apex, then submerging into a secret unknown liberty.

  What we think is great is what we think , the soil is black in places, divers swim for pearls in a turbulent sea where the metaphor crashes over the waterfall precipice and analogy goes to battle with fate and dung. Break open a bottle of nothing, smash apart the molecule of maths under the collective truth . Birth , death , parading the mind severs its own concept , because nothing dies and something goes , a little rejoins , perhaps death throws. 

  Nobody sees it before it comes, if they did it wouldn’t be what it is. The thousand years, the open field, the poetry that is heard by millions , the music eaten alone, the haircut smelled by the dog hunting for jewels in a bag of minutes where the daylight only shines for the weary and night allows the power-monger to prosper.

  He walked like this for forty three years and split his skull open as he fell off his bike. The hospital and the morgue his corpse did grace, where he went as the air entered a dog’s lung was fatally the hell of ape.  

Not happy , not sad , because a mouse scampers from the cats, the dragon circles , taking in a vast column of avalanche , to explode upon the unweary traveler, into the swarm of locusts , he tries again the clocks of love , the compassion of kindness that holds the baby in its arms and knows not what it is, not how the day came to be. Our weakness is our mortality our strength is our stupidity , our hope is our left lung , our failure is the soprano that sings the thousand day march .   

[robinson]

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Apocalypse returned to my throwing arm and the day grew cold with frost. The rolling Scabbard plain stretched out to the Tyrant hills.

 I had wandered for a million years, scooping around the grasslands of inner Jacob. My mother told me not to walk the forgotten trees in the broomed woods but words dissolve bitterly in the haze of morning.

 Looking out of the window under the soil over the sky to the light of a thousand moons, I ached to be free. The lewd worms squirm under the canopy of reason, and I froze before the next step.  

The demon-god of brutal dissolve told me if the words “goal-light-shaman-lapel” were uttered , I would find myself free. Intimation of the price was not explicit, the scars on his belly spoke the aroma of debt. I was tempted, as daylight climbed down my throat, but the words, did not say. 

 Lightning scoured the Tyrant hills and the sky shook the earth around. I raised my right arm and tranced at my green hand with its three thick fingers. Slowly they dissolved into a stump because the heat from the crackling swelled. A thunderous explosion lifted lightning and a hundred years leapt into the sky. I strained to see, but the daybreak was crashing over the oceans of moon.

  Sourly the sand swept along the crippled floor, a forgotten reminder of lust gone bad. A devil screamed under its own piety and swung its axe down into the water shattering the centuries and opening the vase with dextrous calamity. 

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Three small animals with sharp teeth and vengeance in their breath ate the ground around the short creature. They opened up and howled a scream of tyrant’s breath whereupon the soul of lightning and thunder crashed upon the four million years.  

He swung a blade of crimson flowers at the guests as they savagely scowled and barking loudly their teeth barred wondered if the nightingale would be heard again. There is no peace here, the grass , the eyes, the wind , the oval crystal opal slicing across mercury lake.  

You wonder perhaps about sanity, clarity , purpose, meaning , shape, direction, guile, motive, intelligence, then the storm-front comes upon the horizon and rain fills the ocean. The man swam against the current until it swept him out to sea and hurled the corpse back , a day later, bloated.  

Siamese red eyed hatred. The guile drained away . The sky pleading with rainclouds and sacred tunnels of water. The man was naked crawling in the dark tunnel until he found the black crystals and merged into the thousand day vigil. Once inside he saw the goat melt the days cheek. He saw tigers dripping water across hours of milk , and he saw the meaning of life screaming and poured under coals that lit up the centuries. How can the lightning and air swell so far that the copious terror is not stolen?



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[Kaez]

I don't really have a lot of feedback to offer. This kind of writing, in general, just doesn't seem to lend itself to responses. It sort of stands on its own and doesn't expect the reader to react.

The most striking thing about it is how rhythmic your sentence and syllabic structures are. I could almost hear it being rapped out by some spoken-word poet with a double bass quietly beating along in the background.

I think the very abstract, nonobjective nature of the writing is a tricky thing to balance. You want the reader to feel like they understand what you're saying, or what you're implying, even if you don't want to convey it in a straightforward way. And I don't know that you exactly found that balance. At times it felt slightly lost or self-indulgent. But this kind of writing, again, lends itself to that. It's the personal stream of consciousness that couldn't be anything -but- self-indulgent.

And that's fine.

I'm glad you posted it.

[robinson]

Thankyou so much , i am deeply touched by your sincerity , insight and intelligence coupled with constructive attitude and truthful kindness. ….

<I bow low in Gassho>

Thankyou