Down

And when they cried down into the waters like a wild treetop spectre and the thick running currents of their souls flowed out wet and snakey into the black I wanted to crawl under them and breathe them until after all of the breath. When down the long never finding ground descending sharp flanks of the mountain chests which fall in water-like-rock falls glistening from old old far away starlight in their infernal pergutorial tumble into the fall, falling like an angel or a rain drop – I fell besides it. And I frayed my limbs and flesh on it’s surface all along the way until I was stripped like ribbons billowing and bloody clouds dancing, stripping and flailing in the light and the wailing air. My heart was stripped into strings and eyes were sliced into grapes as butterflies weeping clotted red, flapping hopelessly all trodden and limp but swirled all my pieces like from a performer spinning around. I was spinning around against the harsh face, against the rocks, not waiting for the land – not the crunch or crush or splat, knowing not the squash or the grinding into squelching dust beneath a heel. I just knew to fall acutely apart fibre by fibre, nerve by nerve ripped sensually like roots from the ground – capillary by vein into flailing pails into a non-black fathom of something desperate to swallow, desperate and waiting to gulp down finally – to end finally the destruction, all complete, all over and smushed and ended into —— —- . And that would be it but it was a saw dry cracked throat, flaking and raw and split all along the inside by indefinite gagging anticipation. But it wasn’t even surely there at all. Like swallows we fell diving in the rain to be buried through the water far from the water under plains we never could come to. I thought I had complained in my heart but it knew nothing of how to or names to form ideas of what idea means. There weren’t means for anything but everything outside of what was. I wasn’t really there at all one would say. One would look at the world – the hanging existence around me and vomit chunks of acidic hurling black bloody revulsion all into it everywhere. Into this self absorption. Into this sickening non-death non-living pool of putrid sty in which I abide and which I also produce and spread and spew up myself from my stinking eyes and anus and fingers, through my sex and splattering everywhere from my mouth and gurgling in lumpy spouting trickles from my ears. Everything is inside me coming out my insides aren’t coming out as much as I would try. As much as I would die aren’t coming out I don’t arrive at landing. I don’t arrive to stand or any verb or adjective to claim or understand I feel like _—- —— —. And set me free so I’m no longer anything that did or will or does exist or more than this that occupies a thought or time or space in everness – occupies a language or identity of physicality or mentality or consciousness or repressive effect in anything. Take it away from the fall. I fell / feel sick. They were crying with their lungs and souls into the black night and it was like treacle meandering all monster-like across the skies at night, slurring its own sludge across the stars and faces of light of the moon or the cautious winds which became stuck. They mourned and burbled and bubbled away from the trees and roofs – from the earthy crevices in humus of the brown ground and they wormed into a weave like an almost breathing thing that seemed to move us all around, that seemed to breathe and beat and from the stodgy blackness even sing and light up frighteningly into everything.

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About SKYDEA CLOUD

Current affairs, controversialities, politics and poetry: thinking about issues and questions facing the world today.
This entry was posted in Prose, Writing and tagged , . Bookmark the permalink.

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