(no subject)
Blaise/Draco, R. An amalgamation of parts of several ‘Coil’ challenges and the TS Eliot poem, ‘The Dry Salvages’, I and V. Something of an experiment.
i. Summer (Mexico)
Summer and the heat was predatory in it's destruction of the country side. Everything was parched, hungary- bones bleaching in the sun. There is the pant of moist breath on the back of his neck, the pool collecting, drips down his spine. Turns to find eyes like oil glinting purple in the light; I do not know much about gods.
The light, beating staccato rhythms off terracotta roof tops, rusting car parts. A natural tango of voices and voices and skin. This elemental sin; to burn off more then is burnt in; then only a problem confronting the builder of bridges.
Burnt into the mind until its only the haze of purposefulness. There is something more dark under his fingertips, something without the syrup of word melting sugared holes into the form. No switch in architecture, no shift in circumscription. And no powers left to scold the hope of these as fact; of what men choose to forget.
iii. Winter (Hogwarts)
He walks past and,
Things are flowing together now. He can feel it gathering in the hallows of his hips, the crooks of his arms. To have this wall torn from his back, divinity; then what is the cruelty here? Where is the kindness? Well, if it isn’t broken then you can’t fix; its hints of earlier and other creation.
Can’t fix something that is still fluid, motile. Not unlike the coldness of this wall seeping through layers of wool, of generations of similar blankets. Ones that grow up around someone and weave heavy patterns into bodies and this; the sea has many voices. Many gods and many voices.
This is what it is to remember. Transcending the idea of learning, of being witness to this scorn first hand. He knows, though it has vanished from the patriarchal consciousness, there are still pieces that fit into him. Its like this, you can shudder at the whip crack or you can bleed along with the form of the strike, the lines it creates; and under the oppression of the silent fog.
It creates a need, yes but, what does he bring that cannot be found in more pneumatic conditions? What does he have? Wind ruffles the scarves they wear; one boy against the wall, and one,
he walks past.
ii. Fall (Southern England)
The air was chilly and smelt of overly ripe apples where ever they walked. One boy pulls the other into himself, drowns out the sharp angles of his movement. They stand on the parapet in the evening chewing the bitterness, the simmering arrogance of the land under their surveyal; observe disease in signatures.
And there is an understanding between wolves that evades them-- You can break a dozen mirrors and never once be cut. One looking to the west, One looking straight up. One collecting stones to erect vestigial monuments to this, One on the look out for smoke. Both hunters, huntless, reading lines from each other’s skin; biography from the wrinkles of the palm and tragedy from fingers.
Retreating inside, they extinguish the candlelight, and the wail of the wind. Touching and separating like folds in the same cloth. Sharing the body of all things secreted away from children; the recurrent image into pre-conscious terrors.
iv. Spring (In Motion)
His ribs are reminisenct of piano keys or would be if he could only peal away the muscle and sinew above them and run his fingers across their ivory surface. But he will not twist or writhe in the chains to see what damage can be wrought; music heard so deeply, that it is not heard at all.
Instead he thinks of matches that produce no fire but rummble like thunder when struck. He thinks of kisses laid without lips, more powerful than the fists he forms at his back.
He thinks of the virgin sweating through sacrifice after sacrifice for the tangle of inevitability in her hair; here the impossible union of spheres of existence is actual.
And somewhere another boy is walking parapets and deserts and the ruins of what once may have been a classroom wondering if this is what the virtuous had meant to rectify. There is dew and dirt, a placental symbiote, on the skeleton of celebration he still hears whisperd ebony on some plane of his existance. He draws a breath; the life of significant soil.
He walks past.
i. Summer (Mexico)
Summer and the heat was predatory in it's destruction of the country side. Everything was parched, hungary- bones bleaching in the sun. There is the pant of moist breath on the back of his neck, the pool collecting, drips down his spine. Turns to find eyes like oil glinting purple in the light; I do not know much about gods.
The light, beating staccato rhythms off terracotta roof tops, rusting car parts. A natural tango of voices and voices and skin. This elemental sin; to burn off more then is burnt in; then only a problem confronting the builder of bridges.
Burnt into the mind until its only the haze of purposefulness. There is something more dark under his fingertips, something without the syrup of word melting sugared holes into the form. No switch in architecture, no shift in circumscription. And no powers left to scold the hope of these as fact; of what men choose to forget.
iii. Winter (Hogwarts)
He walks past and,
Things are flowing together now. He can feel it gathering in the hallows of his hips, the crooks of his arms. To have this wall torn from his back, divinity; then what is the cruelty here? Where is the kindness? Well, if it isn’t broken then you can’t fix; its hints of earlier and other creation.
Can’t fix something that is still fluid, motile. Not unlike the coldness of this wall seeping through layers of wool, of generations of similar blankets. Ones that grow up around someone and weave heavy patterns into bodies and this; the sea has many voices. Many gods and many voices.
This is what it is to remember. Transcending the idea of learning, of being witness to this scorn first hand. He knows, though it has vanished from the patriarchal consciousness, there are still pieces that fit into him. Its like this, you can shudder at the whip crack or you can bleed along with the form of the strike, the lines it creates; and under the oppression of the silent fog.
It creates a need, yes but, what does he bring that cannot be found in more pneumatic conditions? What does he have? Wind ruffles the scarves they wear; one boy against the wall, and one,
he walks past.
ii. Fall (Southern England)
The air was chilly and smelt of overly ripe apples where ever they walked. One boy pulls the other into himself, drowns out the sharp angles of his movement. They stand on the parapet in the evening chewing the bitterness, the simmering arrogance of the land under their surveyal; observe disease in signatures.
And there is an understanding between wolves that evades them-- You can break a dozen mirrors and never once be cut. One looking to the west, One looking straight up. One collecting stones to erect vestigial monuments to this, One on the look out for smoke. Both hunters, huntless, reading lines from each other’s skin; biography from the wrinkles of the palm and tragedy from fingers.
Retreating inside, they extinguish the candlelight, and the wail of the wind. Touching and separating like folds in the same cloth. Sharing the body of all things secreted away from children; the recurrent image into pre-conscious terrors.
iv. Spring (In Motion)
His ribs are reminisenct of piano keys or would be if he could only peal away the muscle and sinew above them and run his fingers across their ivory surface. But he will not twist or writhe in the chains to see what damage can be wrought; music heard so deeply, that it is not heard at all.
Instead he thinks of matches that produce no fire but rummble like thunder when struck. He thinks of kisses laid without lips, more powerful than the fists he forms at his back.
He thinks of the virgin sweating through sacrifice after sacrifice for the tangle of inevitability in her hair; here the impossible union of spheres of existence is actual.
And somewhere another boy is walking parapets and deserts and the ruins of what once may have been a classroom wondering if this is what the virtuous had meant to rectify. There is dew and dirt, a placental symbiote, on the skeleton of celebration he still hears whisperd ebony on some plane of his existance. He draws a breath; the life of significant soil.
He walks past.