271208: flesh, lightning, wood

(Stimulus words from Nick French)

Sulfuric hairs of aromatic ribbons quiver uphill. The erupted pores push back flaps that tremble among invisible strummings from the plateau above. The moment shakes, a shudder coming from a post-coital ejection, time and rhythm skips half a space and we see double, quadruple.

The violence subsides and

vision settles into unison,

a chorus of vision,

an arc of pure and perfect vision,

sails into the cornea of our minds.

The swell of brimstone hits me first, and I step back from the edge of the rock, a crumbling red biscuit. Down below, a deathly descent, we spy the breathing, pulsating membrane, ominous and elliptically rolling, collecting around mounds that force forth splinters of giant oak trees. The creaking of breaking trunks make us cover our ears – it feels as if our own bones are being crushed horizontally, and squeezed out of tiny mountains.

The dull future ache of our imaginings.

The escalator levels of flesh compressing thousand-year-old trees into pinprick holes, and projected through the breaks in the landscape’s surface, launching them into the sky like skeletons pointing at the sun.

The weight of memory bores into you and once you remember it, you can’t shrug it off. Each blink repeats the minutes and seconds, a never ending avalanche of time particles, showering the scene and about our eyes.

I look down to the reddish earth to steady myself, to distract from a moment of repetitious burden of responsibility and history.

The ground seems to intake air, like the volcanic skin of a beast down below. My feet unsteady, their supports tip away from one another, and I notice dusty fissures appear, cracks in the rock mound, and suddenly ~

I am at all degrees, all sorts of angles away from your flailing body.

~ ~ ~

~ ~ ~

~ ~ ~

The beeping is heard under the crunchy grumble of melting smoldering mashing gnashing between electricity, sand and tree remnants.

Red, red, red, smooth, red, red…

smoothness.

A swarm approaches; tiny silver machines wear bees as badges and blink lights to impress their neighbours. Some aim for rogue branches and pull out hairbrushes to untangle the twigs. Others oscillate sand so hard that the heat of friction turn it into glass, glass that encases the action, freeze it as an eternal spiral of whirling activity.

The motions of these bots crinkle and wrinkle

until their lights and coats of paint fade,

into a mistake,

into a whiff,

into a cloud

of forgotten amperes that whisk away back up into the source of all lightning. The tree-mulching epidermal tornado chasms tear slowly, raising up to follow the former lights.

All matter pulls into that one source.

The planes form fingers that cross and curse and beckon and seek. Nails bleed and stab through, stick thousands of holes of

red, red, no smoothness.

The edges are coarse and jagged now, and we wake,

whirling through gestures from a giant, unseen.

You take a pile of sand and spit heavily into it, you make a brick.

I mix dirt with sawdust with blood to make another, and we build a tower.

We build towers.

They are the new land, an electrified connection of flow and tubes and emptiness and minutiae.

Time is stuck up there, but its okay,

we don’t notice.

We never blink.

We gouge out our eyes.

We can’t see the ground but we can still hear the spines from oaks breaking, the conveyer chain screams. They are faint.

key words

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