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HANGING TOWN

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Musik [Nov. 4th, 2006|02:56 am]
HANGING TOWN

hanging_town

[mrvi]
 Screaming along the asphalt road, vehicular oil-greed rubs
 rubber friction, stickiness against sodium-stained tarmac. The fumes
 curl acrid snakes of scent into my nose, coiling around my brain,
 headlight glow haloing my tired body like a weary saint.
 
 Doppler sound-flow gives me a kiss of mechanized noise and then I'm
 alone again.  One foot in front of the other, alcoholic neural-buzz
 as I walk past the high brick walls of the cemetery, fronds of sickly
 yellow-green vegetation slumped atop granular plateau, sagging from
 the (bare) bones of trees.
 
 The piping pierces the chilly fugue then, a high tap dance of notes
 that flickers impishly across my nerves, inspiring the twitch-fire that
 could carry me across the threshold into the lands of wry amusement
 and small portions of self-conscious jiggery pokery.
 
 Something about it makes me pause, the juxtaposition of the nights'
 quiet and the stillness of the land inside the wall.
 
 A glance across the road at the gates of the park shows only dark
 archways beyond which lie Victorianized landscaping:  an idealized
 Arcadia for Sunday afternoons and leisurely strolls.
 
 Not for now, in the unnatural small hours before dawn; when tiny
 things burrow and nest, when the fears and hopes and dreams of
 tomorrow are simply little eggs injected by the buzzing flies of
 ideas.
 
 Turning back to the wall, intention flip-flops; whorled fingertips
 and etched rubber soles grip at grainy skin and haul the monkey frame
 upward to scrabble frantically for holds. Up and over, the fall an
 ungainly crash into mulchy leaf-litter floor.
 
 Dappled darkness within woven dome of greenery caresses my eye,
 the dim shapes of stone and tree wavering in a sudden breeze that is
 almost subtropical.
 
 The piping continues, pricking at shadows and letting forms ooze
 forth, strange animal shapes that move slowly, sure and rhythmic in
 their gait.
 
 Here, within the walls of the cemetery, Death dances to an ancient
 tune. Cloaked in darkness, I taste the fleshy slickness with my
 tongue:  salt and ash daubed on skin while the scent of sweat and
 sex and blood draws me deeper, the tidal flow of nearness ebbing and
 returning in a slow tidal wave.
 
 Clothes damp, borne to the earth, the music twining about my heart
 as it begins its slow rise to sabbatic crescendo.
 
 A shaft of moonlight pierces the corpse-glade and I see silver wash
 over Death's top hat, the antlers protruding from beneath as his
 stag-skull face grins with bleached-bone smile.
 
 Glistening with sweat he plays, ash-white skin stained with salty
 tributaries that spread their pinkish way over his form.
 
 Fiery kisses brush my face, the air is all perfume and soft hair
 as fingers rove over me, a deft mistress of skin and muscle that
 kneads and unties the knots of inhibition and replaces curiosity.
 
 She spices the flow of wonderment with exotic tinctures of fear and
 lust, a blackness of hollow shadow that promises the unending flow
 of negative totality.
 
 And I?
 
 Now, I carry His music in my blood.
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