For the salvation of my soul I dive once more into the tides of language, uncertainty, and crushing pressure to find there what I may of myself.
In crushing black pressure you turn about. A pearl shining in the dark, encased in magenta velvet, with runaway trees.
Thrash into the orange jungle of aromas. It was pink and glass, black and glass, a magenta velvet with white furniture that bore the passing of many perfumed ladies. It felt like you had stepped into the velvet womb of a velvet giant.
One light summer in early spring. The isosceles beam of light fell through a pane which milked it. Her teeth crunched the apple which was itself and its sign. Golden delicious words shot deep into your soul; your heart recorded as your pen followed.
Each traces their own path through the woods though they all smell like smoke. I remember the amber sap that used to flow between the treeshingles of bark. Like glue on my hands the sap left little spots that were sticky to touch and smelled like pine.
The blue of a pool plunged in. The hem of the water as it slipped your body like an envelope, boiling bubbles over your eyes. Dungh. Slow underwater world before you lost your vision. You looked at the pale blue world with gently curved rockwalls.
The copper dinner. Turkey roasted in the oven, fumes leaving the kitchen and filling the house of red cinnamon candles, wax and oil burning where the tapers met their stand. Gold glasscutter on the mantle, the rowel rolling across the surface, nicking a ghostline into it that—crack—snaps cleanly off and is leant against the wall.
The hazed mountains shown in the plane window. White light drilled your eyes of clouds and filled you with water. As characters walked from the page to the massive spaces outside, a land seeded with words, you skated down the peaks.
Into the ocean where you swam with sharks. Stretched across the T of a hammerhead like a shirt hung to dry in a hostel, the sun smoking it, and mountains in the distance like emerald teeth. Down their side markings of dark rock like the tears of mourning women.
Endless roads cut up the mountains. An urban density of tourists going to the crystalcaves, flying through green space, finally pooling, where? in a tourist’s village filled with baubles and neon food.
The entire world wrapped in blue finery. Coasted and crashed your ankles. You named it runoff, bullstrode, eons at flux as the sun set over the city in the west. Yourcity or anycity, try to cut it out of you. Yourcity or anycity—the parasites, the policemen, the brigadiers, the fireattorneys, the dancers, the nurses, the authors and poets and scholars and streewaterers, sweepers, dwellers, keepers and enforcers, the red and blue and green masses that flux there, now and ever, flux first in the heart which makes them, and once tuned all turns into notes of water, lighted or scented how you choose, redolent of memories you infuse them with, and backwards, forwards, and always dividing—this you left long, long ago for a patch of sky.