theories, daisies and swaying trees (gibberish: a collection)

March 3, 2011

morning: Theories, daisies and swaying trees, a young-woman’s unswollen eye, blood-stained and glossy, correctly reflects it’s devouring ambience though an esoteric-puddle would; light ripples of aesthetic-flesh, graceful and gentle, a malicious-breeze moves steadily across her irresistible fine skin, salacious-dance, somber-strands of blown hair. In pulsating waves, she quivers, like an electrical-shock through unprotected temples, her emotional-frame’s untherapeutically shaken awake: disorientation, blinding-like, coordination necessary to comprehend what’s desired feels drugged, retarded and numb, her recollection’s only able to mumble unintelligible things. Intuitive-breaths, though spiked too, eventually eases the cerebral side of this unimaginative-injury, however, an involuntary exchange occurs, pain; physical amounts of sensation, in an instant, strike profoundly through-out her brain; vulnerable and throbbing, it gingering thinks-up a fuliginous array of possibilities as to how it became to be like this. “Why exist at all?”

Pierced, tattooed and neglected, seated quietly, she ponders heavily upon the unadventurous wounds of self-infliction, her sympathetic heart feverishly aches with unaccomplished care. Both far-off and close, the studious-notes of assiduous-birds are heard; an exasperated-mother, unfed baby-chicks, her head begins to shake, she mockingly laughs aloud, tragically amused by the universal disregard, the male of all species, appear to have; lingering, pacifying fog, yet she’s humored further onward by an effeminate-obscurity, girlish and traditional, one, it seems, every female wishes to exist in. An unconscious pulled-string, her hand is moved softly to her damaged face, shooting and significant, a blatant awareness of feeling begins spinning things, morally-blurs, star-like projections of fire, the explicitness of a new day is startling, she cringes. Once more, instinctively, her hands attempt to apply a tender cover, but the agonies, with their own knack for ambushing, envelop her quick. Unrelenting, bouncing sun, directed rays offhandedly burn off the face of every meditative-surface. Surprisingly warm, the plunder in which it’s after, is taken slow.

Gold-plated, stained-glass windows and doors, she’s been catch-in the reflective-light of an extravagant-castle; erected-statues, chiseled figures stand in strategic positions, though plotting, behind an elaborate metal-fence. A bell sounds, the appropriate hour has come, well-behaved patrons, sons and daughters, have arrived to worship for an hour or so; proper-suits and conservative-dresses, each wearing the acceptable attire; handshakes are exchanged, distressed expressions, too, are traded. She looks upon them frightened, memories of herself, a decade prior, mingle in a flash, the tragic realty of present-day is traced forward in vulgar increments. A particular child, a girl of maybe 12, seems to draw the imagines specifically closer; sharpened and raw, details slowly open across her mind like a razor over an exposed wrist. The gentle spatter of a fallen tear, her hands lay together upturned in her lap, the descended droplet highlights a speckling of white scars; unhurriedly traced, she’s momentarily taken away by the encumbrance of late adolescence, her employed hand reaches now for a disinherited cross atop her breasts; remembrance, curiosity made shameful, she sits fixated, her fingers manipulating an imaginary chain.

afternoon: White, blue and red, a sudden gust of wind has it way with the deteriorating flags of the neighboring homes; their discernible strain pop like boisterous gun-shots. Her lowered head snaps forward, eyes front, she’s steadily chilled by a soothing movement of passing shadows; an assemblage of atmospheric-comrades, miles above her head, leisurely hinder the sanctimonious-beams of the noon-sun. Like an ethereal-cluster of winged-insects, this drifting metaphysical-shade gives off a delectable impression of actual consumption. Though swallowed whole, she grins with every ingestion, safe-haven or mental-asylum, the fact that where all eaten-up by something humors her some. Another violent blast of air, her dark hair whips about, an unconcerned tear is evaporated instantly from off her battered cheek. A second elapses when the spiritless stud in her left nostril begins to glisten; energetic-rays, with steadfast concern, stripe the indeterminate landscape with light. Sparkling green eyes, for the moment, she’s enthralled: gleaming-teeth and laughter, her mystical aura’s become active again.

Elation, grief and sorrow, the air has fallen still, stagnant and dry, she cautiously licks her parched lips, having grown receptive to the life being out-right stolen. Her curiosity lands on recently abandoned leaves laying dead atop the arid grass, though sinless, each forgotten leaf reminds her of numerous others like herself: youth relinquished to the world, blown apart piece by piece, eventually utterly breathless, they crumble to dust. A woman and her dog pass discretely bye, any possibility of eye-contact is avoided, except from the satisfied companion; friendly and curious, it wished nothing more than to say hello, but a yanked chained prevents this. Pulled away with haste, she sits watching the theft of another favorable relationship. Alone again, her attention wanders, passing cars and joggers, she quickly finds the world a bore. Motion to her left, turning she discovers a squirrel with a nut. She smiles, “Hello!” the word like an elderly perv, repulses, the squirrel runs off in some way scared. Unshaken, she’s returned to boredom, her lone, and reliable ally.

Meat, smoke and seasonings, the remnants of a distant family-barbecue enlivens a previous appetite for things; desires and aspirations, she recollects the terrible tragedy the state of feminine-innocence. First an inflexible hunger to be loved, and then the determined fear of losing it. Eventually you settle for affection, affection to sex, and sex…sex means your just fucked. A life-time of being screwed, “A man’s world, no shit.” She tightly wraps her face with her scarf, cheap-perfume and cheap-cigarettes, these familiar secretaries pathetically relaxes things some-what. Phony-romances and plastic-roses, her artificial world hurts with very real & heartfelt afflictions. The laughter of near-by children, a barking-dog, her eyes close tightly, she determinately places herself into a just world of purity; a sanctuary for imagination, guiltless, neither right or sinful, merely a fill of experiences to develop and grow from; a relived childhood of authentic guidance, a teaching of allegiance not fear. “Excuse me, Miss, are you lost?”

Backseats, pat-downs and felt-ups, she’d knew this moment would undoubtedly have to come. “You must of known in your condition folk would take offense?” “Yes, i suppose i did.” “Then what’s the point to all this?” “I’m obsessed.” “With?”  “Disappointment.” The veteran officer gives a good, slow shake of the head, his eyes move from her back to the road ahead; her’s remain, content on the small visual-frame of his. “Have you a specific place i can drop you…” his attention to her returns in glimpses, balancing concern with direction. “A girl-friend, family?” “It’s your call officer, your the one that picked me up, remember.” “Leaving it to me might be a mistake, i’ve little patience for foolish girls.” She laughs, staring amused upon a school-picture of a teen-aged girl stuck to an illuminated dash. “Well that doesn’t give much hope for your daughter, does it?” ” He too, in a very quick glance of his eyes, spies the glossy portrait. “My daughter’s been raised too well, she’d know better than to put herself in your position. Perhaps if you’d had caring parents like her, you’d be some-where other than the back of a police-car.” “And perhaps if there weren’t parents like your wife and your-self, the position i’m in wouldn’t be at all.”

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