Saturday, January 22, 2011

Spontaneous Prose - 1/22/11

Twisted skeletal remains dance in vibration from earthly shudders, just dominating the visual field. My eyes can’t but harness the real activity as the life of these dusty bones makes fear crawl into my spine like a thousand tasty snails. Oozing. Sliming their way into my occipital lobe and I only hear their language. The language of sudden change, the lifespan of a summer, of dirt and mold and rain. The blood doesn’t phase me when I taste it in my mouth. The iron dab on the taste buds is a much needed snap back to reality, the earth is quaking like a dynamic emperor on bad beer. The cave tap dances on my head with little grains of ore as they pass down into the air which is always being stirred and thrashed, making a malt of musty grime that cakes my eyes, now taking the laughing skeleton of a tired, abandoned miner, fade away from my awareness.

The fever is just a fever, an OS code of an ill advising virus, fucking around with my gene structure. Telling my DNA that it is archaic, of a making not ready for the rugged. I shouldn’t have tasted the waters from the underground river that trickled, that looked black in the glow of my lantern, that sucked me in to quench my thirst like a magnetic siren body, tugging at me with unpronounced pheromones.

Living organisms have a right to take what they need. Just as I have right to crawl out into the Autumn light, the setting of dusk as the earth stopped. And to lie there and cry for help until it arrives, pawing away at branches, through the woods, ready to pull my body back to the village and maybe siphon some life back into it, maybe my own life force, maybe that of a demon who was wading in the dark pool and slid down my tongue as I lapped away. There he punches at my belly in a-rythmic sweeps against the freeforall of plate tectonics.

The cave is doomed for curious losers. No treasure is worth biological, geological and spiritual possession. Bring a canteen if you go down there.

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