January 21, 2019Adiago in G Minor. Now slow the old tape down just a little. Watch them–such splendid birds of bright yellow, soft-blues and pastel-pinks…how they play at stabbing one another.
The weight of my head pulled as I stretched my neck to the left, letting out a soft sigh, mouth agape and eyes slightly tight, and with the opening of my aching eyes came a vision of fading feathered seraphim penciled across the morning blue sky. And this particular morning was a bright new day–yet the stale breath of the old days lingered, as if from a still sickness, like a longing lover repentant of a drunken evening the night before. No, not a rebirth, I shan’t say, more like a greeting from old guards to a king as he returns from an indefinite trip, and with chin up, graces the pine trees aligned in symmetrical rows and almost bowing, leading him to the front door of his castle where his throne lies, devoid of deus, wanton of the writhing wraith, lamenting the lascivious lecher borne of brevity–exacted with botched romanticism–a tiresome tale of two lovers entangled ephemerally to tell nobody eventually. Then soft pats, the lycan lonely paws of perilous days now forgotten, my youth ascending the steps, out into the garden, and disappearing into the woods. The odyssey was delightful. Not a rapturous day, not a cackle or a muffled whimper throughout its entirety. Rather, those hours had been a towering stack of flaring moments that had landed on my lap; the macabre and the pleasant, the insanely digestible and pukable, mildly mannered days of a marooned man; pages–these days–without pleasant pains, without pleasures unexplained, musing on despair; days when I anxiously pondered, subjective and fearful, whether it wasn’t time to joyfully jack off or follow the frolicking footsteps of Jacques Vache’.
Altogether not terrible.
∞
