a sketch in the light
Like a stream, like the wind, like the idea striven for and occasionally broached in the figure skaters cursive flight, in rare moments, all the brighter for the backdrop of pressure from which the diamond moment is squeezed, juiced out like the last drip of the precious, the last lingering tease of a rare wine, fermented from formative conditions of a singular uniqueness, as a moment in a minute passes irrevocably, in an instant is no more and in the next is another, as like
as a vermin
It started with a stirring. The long period of dormancy, the lurking in the burrowed dark of his lair, the shying away from light and company, the ever briefer, ever-fainter pleasure of his lonely self-satiations in the night, the lease of which sordid consolation he had extended to the flattening far end of the bell curve by all manner of creative inspirations, to the horror of warm desecrated fruits left powerlessly to suffer through lurid debasements by means of improvised contraptions involving mattresses or cushions, scented with girl smells procured by shy trips to womens stores, which would suffer his amorous, feverish thrustings amidst a clutter of grimy dishes, soiled laundry haphazardly strewn about as his inclinations to disrobe had seen fit, a different kind of half life, lonely self-satiations in the gloom, front the square empyrean source of his vicarious
as man, a snake, defiant
under the purview of those shadowed wings, those territories that other, less neurotically-inclined individuals might find unfathomably inconsequential, who might even find themselves aghast, mortified, by the discovery, the knowledge, that a fellow man, who, for all intents and purposes, couldshouldmust be, with all due reasonability so-be-calleda man; who, by all appearances looks to be much like any other simple, ordinary mancould inwardly be so pruny, so sickly-frail, so hollow and willful and so thoroughly impoverished in spirit as to resist as he did the performance of a selfless act; resisted as he did the merest, feeblest hint of a gesture of a thing that did not align with the natural proclivities of his spirit, that went against the grain of his makeup as he so felt it to be. How could he know? How could he know with such certitude who he was at heart that he could so flaunt the very same rules that many a man no lesser than he, many a man much greater, had deemed satisfactory, sound, and allowed themselves to be merged into its order?
to which my spirit cannot comply, no matter how I may try, however much I, its supposed master, the wielder of choice, of will, the master and commander of the vessel of my body, my handsit is to no avail. I cannot answer the question in their eyes, the incredulity, the palpable accusatory hive that swarms to life in the very fabric of the air to sting me to submission, to explain myself, to release the words that will not come, that I do not know I have. That is the truth. I do not know. I just cannot
Like a stream, like the wind, like the idea striven for and occasionally broached in the figure skaters cursive flight, in rare moments, all the brighter for the backdrop of pressure from which the diamond moment is squeezed, juiced out like the last drip of the precious, the last lingering tease of a rare wine, fermented from formative conditions of a singular uniqueness, as a moment in a minute passes irrevocably, in an instant is no more and in the next is another, as like
as a vermin
It started with a stirring. The long period of dormancy, the lurking in the burrowed dark of his lair, the shying away from light and company, the ever briefer, ever-fainter pleasure of his lonely self-satiations in the night, the lease of which sordid consolation he had extended to the flattening far end of the bell curve by all manner of creative inspirations, to the horror of warm desecrated fruits left powerlessly to suffer through lurid debasements by means of improvised contraptions involving mattresses or cushions, scented with girl smells procured by shy trips to womens stores, which would suffer his amorous, feverish thrustings amidst a clutter of grimy dishes, soiled laundry haphazardly strewn about as his inclinations to disrobe had seen fit, a different kind of half life, lonely self-satiations in the gloom, front the square empyrean source of his vicarious
as man, a snake, defiant
under the purview of those shadowed wings, those territories that other, less neurotically-inclined individuals might find unfathomably inconsequential, who might even find themselves aghast, mortified, by the discovery, the knowledge, that a fellow man, who, for all intents and purposes, couldshouldmust be, with all due reasonability so-be-calleda man; who, by all appearances looks to be much like any other simple, ordinary mancould inwardly be so pruny, so sickly-frail, so hollow and willful and so thoroughly impoverished in spirit as to resist as he did the performance of a selfless act; resisted as he did the merest, feeblest hint of a gesture of a thing that did not align with the natural proclivities of his spirit, that went against the grain of his makeup as he so felt it to be. How could he know? How could he know with such certitude who he was at heart that he could so flaunt the very same rules that many a man no lesser than he, many a man much greater, had deemed satisfactory, sound, and allowed themselves to be merged into its order?
to which my spirit cannot comply, no matter how I may try, however much I, its supposed master, the wielder of choice, of will, the master and commander of the vessel of my body, my handsit is to no avail. I cannot answer the question in their eyes, the incredulity, the palpable accusatory hive that swarms to life in the very fabric of the air to sting me to submission, to explain myself, to release the words that will not come, that I do not know I have. That is the truth. I do not know. I just cannot
ashlynn:
WHERE ARE YOU, CREEPY?