Thursday, April 29, 2010

I'm not singing to an imaginary girl.

Last night I dropped Acid. I wrote this on a cocktail napkin....

He fell down slack-jawed, trembling madly at the sparkling waves as she appeared. Her footprints were breadcrumbs. Her eyes were careless and had the protracted luster of someone sucking on a lemon. They meet deep in a dance between the forest and moon.

Her name was Angel, he knew her as Svetlana. She was too young to be old. From childhood she wore the body of a woman whose skin never knew the desperate triumph of the sun. And she could perceive events in other worlds and in the deepest reaches of his inner mind.

She drowned him in her body as the fragrance of their slowly decaying bodies filled the forest like the boom of a gun.
His mother’s words echoed loudly, in the violent reaches of the cellar he knew to be his mind: “We all go through life asleep until eventually we sleep forever, so wake up beautiful.” His childhood was killed in that instant as his clumsy fingers tore through her crimson-kissed locks like tiny pretentious soldiers.

Together they ruled the Kingdom of Dawn in an intense visitation of energy. They fashioned reality from Camus and defended Nietzsche from Jesus, until she became nothing more than a fleshy shadow and the moon became her face.

…The Rest of his life accrued in several short, sweet seconds as he awoke to his gaze in the reflection of his murky, mahogany colored cocktail in the goneness of the flickering bar light where the bartender beckons “Last Call.”


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