[Reigian Studies.] [On behalf of the baroness.]


Burning bright

Who told you that, that the rhapsodies of ustulation as you passion crept up through the chemical crypts of a body made statue (rather than scarecrow, for by now the straw would have burned to ashes, and you maybe the while mistaking its strangled whisperings as obliteration took over for the birth-throes of some sort of ensconced oracle whose new mutterings kept telling about heroic oaths and sworn accomplishments graciously granted to you, the nascent corpse whose youth would endure and multiply into statues that winced on the asphalts of foreign civilizations, millennia hence, as the caskets opened and saucy banshees came to adore with throbbing tendrils of spun filaments from bodies formerly crumbled asking now gratuitously for crumbs of your unscathable marble as you chest heaved, dismayed,) who told you that, that your body turned citadel of steel would weather every hurricane sent by time, that every gossipy hummingbird would then turn vulture, blinded and blundering into your shiny walls anthropomorphic (your exact replica, magnified many millions of epsilons-light,) and that the wastes about, the deserts of asphalt surrounding your colossal likeness, its dunes or the mirrored horseshoe of its nap oozing some sinewy sap that came servilely lapping at your feet uncorrupted of a stone pharaohnic that never would sink into the sands of time, time itself a sea of idle waves made of metal where no fire (even heaven-sent, as lighting by a minor god, peeved but impotent, and comical) would wrestle a spark, who then (I'm asking) intimated that lie, ribald and sour, to you, a statue that glowed a trifle too bright? Because, of course, the truth is always sadder, a beggar under the cold moon, shivering on thin ice, the ice not even flush, but knitted in knots, badly squeezed, the obverse adverse, and in some spots just chickening out, as pierced by the ferrules of a retreating badly-grafted amputee (his prostheses pointing helter-skelter, as trapezes from where drunk pixies, as smashed flies, fall to their almost weightless deaths,) an asymmetric, fading, slowly simmering down, sorely sorry clown that dares not even ask with a frozen tongue where phlegm whorls in whorls of cheery fireworks reflected from childhoods unconscionable the favor of a shorn toothbrush to whet his unfound, never found, appetite for the epic feats and heroic prowesses promised by the burned-up oracle of his burning fancy - a sweaty rag of a tattered sheet covering the project of a wooden statue now turned into rank flame, or some such I fancy myself smelling, no?

we are the continuators... emptying the boxes, and more

visits since July 2008