They sting, constraints placed upon us, sodden rope friction burning the wrists of one and all, the throbbing ruby red reminder of the yoke of ages. My wrists burn, and call to me like sirens, what if?
Indeed.
The darker recesses are exposed by water damage, weathered hearts, blasted by elements indifferent to solitary tears. I am meladramatos.... out of time, past, now.
The mess builds too, the horrible, pained distraction of a meandering mind, grasping, thumbless, at straws.
Here I am Lord. Bowing, cowed golden calves are we, hands outstretched, screaming for judgement and hoping for none. Without a thought I believe in nothing, with a singular it floods me, shades of grey and immobility.
What makes a good man?
What makes a great one?
What makes a great one?
In deed, in name.
I name them all, the dead ones, long fallen superheroes, my imagination smiles, laughs even and I feel the derogatory tone, cringing. Have I raised myself so high, that pride forces mockery in all but the most pious of company? I am no Godsman, no more. His notion amuses me like those poster heroes of old, bearded and wielding the elements, the furious weapons of a fledgling romance. Sanity forbids me to entertain the slightest notion and I lose the childlike swaddling, the cotton in my ears. Denying a child is just that, denying a child.It is not misuse, it does not negate the proper. But was and is it proper? Or just propriety.
To believe is to grow wings, high soaring chosen child, free from things tainted, ashen and grimed. The bestial, the bottom feeders, fear laden and bound to flesh. Bound to flesh as I, with imaginings born of hunger. To see with open eyes though, opened as a man's can be, is freedom as reality is. Dealt with and moving ever onward.
The scoffing of intellectuals rings in the chambers of aural faculty. And the brave ones, standing up empty handed and admitting to the same are liken to those biblical indifferents, cast down with measured menace by both sides of the coin.
Resolution is further away than any apocalypse, geophysical or theophysical. Its a cause both so solemn and laughable. To dream though, when a dream is not a sign. That our minds are our minds, and we can reconnect. Maybe I can stop whining. Maybe.
Apollo guide me. I sing to the muses, and wonder.
2 comments:
im pretty much thinking of having this "wierd little number" as a piece within pastel green, i was kinda in that guys head again and couldnt recapture the place right away. anyway let me know what you think.
i.e, will it work?
This comment is coming much later than your post's date - if you eventually see it and/or it means anything to ya, well here it is.
The tie into 'Pastel Green' I can see & agree with you on. It continues that brooding, melding tone incorporating elements of classical mythology (admitingly something I can't claim a breadth of knowledge on) into something approaching a Holden Caulfield world. It's a great feature and something I hope you keep poking at to realise all it's potential.
If I was to suggest something, it would be to involve the narrative with an actual setting. Like in Pastel Green where the characters imagination wandered while we were aware of his physical settings. I feel you may be at risk losing the impact of some of this fine writing because of this. That is, if you were to tread the narrators actual place & movements it would lend an accesibility to all the rest which may be blunted otherwise.
I really like the piece Mick & hope it continues to grab your attention. It certainly did mine.
(I've also posted the link to Pastel Green below. It's such a fine piece, I felt it had to be tied into this site somewhere.)
http://www.xanga.com/mickalomaniac?nextdate=2%2f17%2f2006+8%3a46%3a11.357&direction=n
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