Corpsepuscle

My mind is melting down itself, in to a wide wide ocean of cranial horizons and towering ceilings gleaming with red glow. I am in my mind, and I only see red. The red stains my hands, stains it from the liquid seeping onto me and stains it from the blood boiling inside of me. The flesh on my arms seems more real than ever. The clarity is cardiovascular; I’m enlivened to manic proportions as if I had been running in circles in place for hours beforehand. I’m sweating more than ever, but the sensation only accumulates into beads clinging all over my body. Nothing drops and nothing from my body mingles with the hellish landscape. Only the landscape induces change, change towards melting away. Everything is obvious, everything is coming to a climax, everything is on the verge. I feel hungry, I feel aroused, I feel poised for an ambush of tigers striated in patterns of open flesh and scorched meat, beasts as long as anacondas and as wide as the fear in my eyes. But the beasts are hidden, hidden all around. Their growls are engulfed by the whelm of blood and mists of fire that crackle loud and soft, near and far. The rock is afraid, the jagged fingers groping frantically from the retreating shores. It clutches me like I am the only chain separating them from the stabs of a thousand lusting murderers. The heat comes, I am roasting inside. What could a broiled boy, shriveled to an unwanted husk, offer? Sacrifice? My skin maintains a pink color, and my eyes are watering. It cakes a line of evaporated tears and human salt, and the eyes sting more. I know this is where it starts, where I splay open and the skeletal form of a prostrate corpse begs before the onslaught that has already killed him. Belief in death – believe in death and the essence of destruction gurgles in a gourmand’s delight, the confused shriek and only look inwards. If this world of mine could collapse before I do, if only…

Space-Spanning Dream

Tiki hut at the end of the galaxy in a world of night, rock, and civil oceans. Skies as starry as the shattered ice in the two sipper’s glasses reached up from both horizons at either shack-side. The bartender went behind the display of layered liquors some time ago, so I have started humming to the stars. The two sippers were here before me and I feel like they will be here a little longer. The threshold of thick timbers are wet with a recent storm and, like water purling off the Cliffside, I am drawn out the portal as if the lone bartender cupped a hand on my shoulder and moved me on my surefooted way with assured words of parting. It may be the last time I exit that tiki hut. I open my arms wide to the outside, to the deep night and the starlight. The moss underfoot opens itself as wide as the black rock of the unending cliff. They touch like soft green leaves against the smooth bark of a branch, oblivious to any low and cold place. I have come this far afield, to see a stellar spectacle as if it had never hid itself beyond view of time in space. Like the cliff standing and gazing past the distant figures of islands, so too do I gaze at the slowly coursing expanse. You can watch a moment’s thought project into the zenith and it will sustain your mind until any morning. I loved the conversation of the two bar stool sippers, and I knew I loved this stretch of lone space as much. The moss held me, and I dreamed of the tiki hut under the span of all space.

Watercolor thoughts: Unclouded Impression

The plateau was a sponge. It whipped up into the sky. Its pores many big and small; colorful flowers grew in all of them. It was large enough to stand without sinking; I was floating. I wanted to run and fly, but my heart was already doing that. The plateau soaked up the vast sky and let a cool breeze from the sun-kissed warmth of its body. The sky was as open as my eyes, and I felt that if I thought clearly the sky would reflect in kind with equal clarity. I fell to my knees. I always had wanted to let go. The sun shone and the plateau grew lighter. It was growing towards the light; it thrived on the light. It synthesized the every shimmer of the sun. I clutched at the stem of a small bed of flowers. They didn’t come loose. They did not loose themselves; they could not be uprooted. They opened to me, floating to me like a small child gifting a token treasure to their mother. They had no unmoving roots. The entire plateau was drifting like a great wandering healer, with origins unknown and life-sustaining as the first fountain. Everything was given as pure as breathe. At the edge of the plateau the sponge bubbled up. The wind weaved itself between my toes like the rivulets of returning waves. I felt the limber stance of the plateau ease itself into my back. Rising and falling like shoulders in an embrace, neither rigid nor formless. It became me as embraces unite bodies. The plateau did not have the sentiment that separates two bodies, and I did not hold expectations or doubts on why it should allow me to be so close. I believed in it as much as the sky stretching before me.