||[Nov. 4th, 2006|02:56 am]
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, the dim shapes of stone and tree wavering in a sudden breeze that is
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
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 piping continues, pricking at shadows and letting forms ooze
forth, strange animal shapes that move slowly, sure and rhythmic in
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.
Now, I carry His music in my blood.