The boy pressed his hand to the cool interior wall, sitting on the floor of a dark, empty chapel. Outside the sun blazed, and humidity oppressed. The orphan created a narrative in his head, one based on some strange logic. If hell was an "eternal torment of flames," then the cool interior of the monk's chapel must be the anti-hell -- a place that devoured the heat of hell-fire... but what did that make that baking place that was outside those thick walls.
They shouted irate philosophies about the foul leviathan. The angry measure of angry men, and all those foul winds blew back on them.
On the shore of angry seas I hear the crash of foamy waves, but miss the crisp sudsy sizzle that one hears on a sunny summer day. That nuanced note is lost to the Churn
There you sit in a boxless box -- unmoving, but thinking about moving. Then, stretching one trembling hand out to its fullest extent, you feel fingers press into nothing, but a hard kind of nothing.
A falling leaf is my teacher. It craves nothing. It fears nothing. It surrenders itself, but does not submit. It will not be hemmed in for long, for its patience is infinite.
the image blurs my mind blurs attempts to focus bring a headache so i relax, seeking no clarity, finding no answers adrift in emptiness attached to nothing; the abyss peers back what does it see?
the brass monkey seemed real -- not like a real monkey, but like a real supplicant, making a real offering i guess its realness was the realness of human wishfulness it looked real because it looked like what a human desires in a monkey -- rather than how an actual monkey would behave, hightailing it with the fruit up to too lofty a height to have its jackfruit repossessed i read that the original "brass monkey" was a cannonball rack on an old-timey sailing ship, then the term came to refer to cold weather, because the differential contraction of cold metal would cause the cannonballs to pop off the rack -- hence the saying: "cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey!" and, somewhere along the way, it also became a low-brow malt liquor cocktail seems strange that so many brass monkeys would exist that weren't monkey-shaped, or even made of brass -- but such is the way of words
I Where is my shadow? I look behind me & see that it's ill-formed & indistinct. And I wonder whether it's the quality of the light, or the quality of the me. II I read that Oraon shamans study people's shadows. Fat-shadowed people are said to be ill-tempered, stubborn, & domineering [but not necessarily fat-bodied.] III I heard tell of a master of shadows. It might not seem like much of an object of mastery -- shadows being intangible, but he always knew which way he was going and where the world sat at the moment. [And that's more than can be said of the rest of us.] It was a simple skill that most could not be bothered to practice. Everyone else's inability to find value in those dark angular patches was his gain.
Screaming streams of information pelt all corners of the mind. Neurons are constantly flickering with flinches. Meanwhile, the body whispers its secrets in the hushed tones of a prayer uttered during a shootout.
a cat abhors a vacuum vacuums abhor tangled hair tangled hair abhors a hairbrush hairbrushes abhor Victorian Spanking Fetishists Victorian Spanking Fetishists abhor Victorian prudism prudism abhors immodesty immodesty abhors modesty modesty abhors whores whores abhor cheapskates cheapskates abhor expenses expenses abhor ledgers ledgers abhor ink pens ink pens abhor writers writers abhor synonyms synonyms abhor antonyms antonyms abhor continuums and so on... it's true that Eddie Rabbitt loves a rainy night, but who loves Eddie Rabbitt? [the Coalition for Names with Double-Letters, that's who!]
Tiger Riding for Beginners 