Light and shadow

Oily light hangs in the air, settling on the walls and on our skin. Running towards the floor, it bathes in bacchal repose. It saturates our clothes, and runs down bare skin, holding against gravity in shining orbs until the weight of it presses for the low-spots.
Goin’ down, down, down to the floor where I’ll lay still and calm, reflecting blurry light to blurry faces.
Butter yellow, the walls sag and flow towards the floor in the heat of our breaths, warm and wet; the room grows soft.
I push trepidation in, while others watch faces pushed in; screaming and laughing and congealing in the ring, like gory ribbons of sticky maple toffee cooling on white canvas snow.
Laugh. laugh! Stuttered breath from my nose, pulsates with shoulder-humps, smile-- that was a laugh. That feels like walking on broken glass. Electric jumps.
I’ve had this dream before and it always ends with me feeling full and being empty.
Bloated and sick it pushes me to the floor and drags me with carpet-burn through reality.

Pool cue pass-- hop-along-the-frog. Balls go where they want they’re disappearing, dropping into a bowl of soup in Tanzania.
All this is an act, but I’ve no character to play; so smile, and shrug, and feel alone and unknown and close your eyes and feel the music.
Imagination is creation make a void out of space -or a space from void- there’s no stairs or walls or door jams, so moving a couch in will be easy work.

Push the music out your feet to the center of the earth, down where the bits of left-off gods, unincorporated (they get no postal service) hurl volcanoes at your feet, shooting like a ripe strawberry through the tiny holes in a stainless collander—a mass of congealing red viscera, boiling and heaving towards the bottom of your feet.

Vision is giant little straight beams of light reflected off of every object into your eye: up-side-down. We see what is not, what is is swallowed and held down queasy by everything.
As afraid as you of losing themselves, they swallow their true selves and clench shut to keep safe.
I want to see between the lines of rejected light; to see between the colour and the shape, between form and meaning. It’s designed to look pretty, but it makes it invisible.

We slip noiselessly and sit legs crossed on the floor, hurling words at distant planets.
Flying through space at an incredible rate, ‘projection’ crashes into a distant moon, and leaves an aggressive crater stripped from the surface.
‘Breathe’, and ‘stillness’ crash simultaneously into a distant world and bore through it; with an empty, hollow sounding reverberation, the world dissolves into an impossibility of particle and light.
‘Crystal Meth’ diffuses in a thick atmosphere and drifts down particulate onto the thin skinned amnesiacs with no words of their own. Bombarded by our diction, they prattle and gesture, creating vast symphonies with the words we scatter to them, like the music the birds scratch with their claws, eating the crumbs we toss. (Contractions fall like gentle rain)

The crash of shrieking voices drifts down the stairs like a child: clumsy and loud, but careful, on all fours, crawling to your feet and looking into your eyes with gentle sadness.
There is only one desired meet, and there is no presence for them, no shape to fill.
A ghost of woman, chestnut brown- bright blue.

The door slides open dully, and I roughly slip heavy leather past my ankles and press into the cold.
A spectre of purple hangs around us, weaves itself into the void within us, holds, release, bends to our shape and tempts its way around our bodies. A whispered sound and a gentle touch flows like woman around us in the cool night air.
Rows of houses, leering huge in the ghostly blue twilight of the streetlamps, sneer me past them, leaning their bulk against mine.
Who was turned around- you forgot we could both be wrong.
We stumble in the darkness writing the script to be followed in our absence by all eternity. They may miss choice, but will know instead certainty.

24 hours before; “you can take it all apart”, “you can rip this world apart- you have the ability, it is you, you have the choice to begin”.
“Thou mayest”, I say concise, knowing the truth in it, but reluctant to personalize it, to let it attach to myself, wanting to avoid this choice.
It is like choosing death; though one knows its inevitability, even if prepared and ready, the choice, the moment you breathe out, is so difficult to time.
Shoes click on the pavement, and we find our way back; we were creatures of the night, we were comfortable and lively and folded neatly into the blue darkness.

More words crash and reverberate around the room and through the atmosphere, but go astray and swirl faster and faster into a black hole. The words crush together, become a singularity and are quiet.
Quiet becomes heavy and thick, movement slows and thought slows; until you find a character, and find comfort and speed and movement in that.
I've retreated, haunted by the ghost of chestnut and blue- and sit in front of white sheets, waiting to be coloured with black. (The spaces between the black are as essential to meaning)

I stare at the white sheet, and the black words; look at the earth and past the gun-metal sky, and hurl my words into space.