OsakanOne
Retired Member
♫ Nick Drake: "Day is done"
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Above, the sky burned bleach white. Eyelids gurned with white learned lashes, oil painted lips squinted and winced and hissed; all while riding laboured. bipedal, through the arid pearly flats. Steps, steps and steps again, left fingerprints in the dust. Forever it was steps. It was a scurried insect beneath the sun from so far away, cocooned in synthetic blacks until her chin and face. Specular shine dulled. Peeks peaked of ruby shone sentinel mirrors of fire over silky ivory skin. Seeing. Running, but slow.
A reverse red rain of heat swam from the ground. Miles back, black wind sighed, gulped and belched bitterly from amber ripped metal. It had laminated something unmetallic. Oldest friend -- that wisped through the great mandarin still in the sky, dropping in hue and anger, drowning just slowly behind the horizon. Lush, but not juicy.
In shy mercy and her own mistake, her senses could not read the stench.
Only forward could be; She could not be Lot’s wife.
But who’s memory?
A man came to mind. Arguments settled with knowing. Tenderness of hands. Fears wrapped in both. They were not his.
The other; the first other. She rusted. That which rusted was read beneath tender hands and meticulously scraped away, substituted with chemically melded heaviness that spoke unlike stone or flesh. Looking into her, a gallaecolour reflection stared back in every way. That nature was of a mother and a sister, living inside her for so long silently. Whispering, screaming and puppetry. Just to exist. The noise had become her and in the building of a living puzzle, memory could not be cut away. Every thought was cross-contaminated, crystallising tersely in the foundations of every action.
Memory of tenderness, fears and unwoken secrets were so often rewound, to be watched ad nausium on the inside. All un-earned, all foreign and unbelonging: un-earned — gifts from the first other.
You hadn’t been there for those, had you?
Her fingers wrapped in her black, balled tight. The more prickly and more undeserved gifts had to be squeezed and pushed. Down through what guilt passed as a gut and down beneath gifts unrecieved of her nature or longing, like oil into burning hot boots. They were just melted, glossy tops almost carrying the sand.
But the walk could not stop. The mandarin, so lush and so distant that sung through all space, iris on the edge of the world in heat had to be escaped. Trapped, the sentence was the loss of a mask and ruby that could never sight again. And song would become silence.
The blood of the hard waves turned dark. Spongy gloss became hard. Cold.
Standing at the crest of such a wave, something in the distance.
The first other.
Almost waving.
Almost being.
Sargasso, 'Cheap Hotel', 04:02am
Ruby cracked wide, opened in the darkness. An unknown ceiling. They saw nothing like the first other and nothing like the man or any others of his kind. But they saw. Both together, twisted slowly as her paleness sat up inside foreign comfort and alien wrappings called bandages. Against the sheets, her palm could taste the sweat of unwashed sex from whoever unknown had laid their head here before her and then aside her. Squinting again; The purring of cathode lighting chalkboard itched its way through temples coarsely, of neon fireflies that hung where stars should have been and the strum of rain drumming its million nails on the outside. Sticky heat. And so much noise they could not hear. All of it, calling for war.
Behind curtains of eyelids, ruby settled on a living painting they called mirror with its hairline break. But no gallaecolour seagreen stared back. Not even callously. Not even taken from her by the man.
Here, the first other was not. There would be no man, no pyrite, no Maras and no rest.
Only Rebeka. And that was enough.
?????????????, ??:??
Above, the sky burned bleach white. Eyelids gurned with white learned lashes, oil painted lips squinted and winced and hissed; all while riding laboured. bipedal, through the arid pearly flats. Steps, steps and steps again, left fingerprints in the dust. Forever it was steps. It was a scurried insect beneath the sun from so far away, cocooned in synthetic blacks until her chin and face. Specular shine dulled. Peeks peaked of ruby shone sentinel mirrors of fire over silky ivory skin. Seeing. Running, but slow.
A reverse red rain of heat swam from the ground. Miles back, black wind sighed, gulped and belched bitterly from amber ripped metal. It had laminated something unmetallic. Oldest friend -- that wisped through the great mandarin still in the sky, dropping in hue and anger, drowning just slowly behind the horizon. Lush, but not juicy.
In shy mercy and her own mistake, her senses could not read the stench.
Only forward could be; She could not be Lot’s wife.
But who’s memory?
A man came to mind. Arguments settled with knowing. Tenderness of hands. Fears wrapped in both. They were not his.
The other; the first other. She rusted. That which rusted was read beneath tender hands and meticulously scraped away, substituted with chemically melded heaviness that spoke unlike stone or flesh. Looking into her, a gallaecolour reflection stared back in every way. That nature was of a mother and a sister, living inside her for so long silently. Whispering, screaming and puppetry. Just to exist. The noise had become her and in the building of a living puzzle, memory could not be cut away. Every thought was cross-contaminated, crystallising tersely in the foundations of every action.
Memory of tenderness, fears and unwoken secrets were so often rewound, to be watched ad nausium on the inside. All un-earned, all foreign and unbelonging: un-earned — gifts from the first other.
You hadn’t been there for those, had you?
Her fingers wrapped in her black, balled tight. The more prickly and more undeserved gifts had to be squeezed and pushed. Down through what guilt passed as a gut and down beneath gifts unrecieved of her nature or longing, like oil into burning hot boots. They were just melted, glossy tops almost carrying the sand.
But the walk could not stop. The mandarin, so lush and so distant that sung through all space, iris on the edge of the world in heat had to be escaped. Trapped, the sentence was the loss of a mask and ruby that could never sight again. And song would become silence.
The blood of the hard waves turned dark. Spongy gloss became hard. Cold.
Standing at the crest of such a wave, something in the distance.
The first other.
Almost waving.
Almost being.
Sargasso, 'Cheap Hotel', 04:02am
Ruby cracked wide, opened in the darkness. An unknown ceiling. They saw nothing like the first other and nothing like the man or any others of his kind. But they saw. Both together, twisted slowly as her paleness sat up inside foreign comfort and alien wrappings called bandages. Against the sheets, her palm could taste the sweat of unwashed sex from whoever unknown had laid their head here before her and then aside her. Squinting again; The purring of cathode lighting chalkboard itched its way through temples coarsely, of neon fireflies that hung where stars should have been and the strum of rain drumming its million nails on the outside. Sticky heat. And so much noise they could not hear. All of it, calling for war.
Behind curtains of eyelids, ruby settled on a living painting they called mirror with its hairline break. But no gallaecolour seagreen stared back. Not even callously. Not even taken from her by the man.
Here, the first other was not. There would be no man, no pyrite, no Maras and no rest.
Only Rebeka. And that was enough.
