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Nov. 3rd, 2005 09:16 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
burnunitWhat is this taste in my mouth? Today it's bile, but there's a higher layer too, the memory of coffee or cool dry pinenuts at midsummer. There's plenty of room under the bridges. Let's go capture all the tiny refractions from the river for an hour, and feed them--just so--to the first lovely strangers we meet. We bent toward the horizon, she and I, hoping to find union around or past the the wild skeins of language in the air between us. Interrupted only by the wonder of the immanence of these vigorous boys, we remembered together how we'd watched astronauts risen whole, themselves tiny moons.
Great clouds of diesel smoke wrote across my memories of her. Din and din, the clamor of young voices over the grind of the morning bus! Their bodies leapt and hands rumble through the reeking well-dieseled air. They excited us, these boys on their run into the heart of downtown, their tales of baby faced girls (hips angled, mouths puckered, voiced pitched, all just-so) and their cavaliers, jousting through the depth of the Middens. "Aww yeah, that was that was," he hollered, interruption upon interruption words drawn out exaggerated pulled like taffy through their endlessly revolving hands. "We was so draunk, we was runnin we was--" now the other one, "an we jook yeah we go to get that blunt anwe be--" now the third, "I was like walk faster walk faster til we runnin cuz summa them niggaz startin to recognize my face--" now the first, "it was all like 3 in the mornin an we be thonly ones out there nigga and that ainta good time for the niggaz" "thas what I say nigga, thas why I say we gots to walk faster" "cuz some niggaz startin to reckanize my face" "aww" But over all this, sharp like a cool drink she whispered through the clearing morning blue "I'm tired" and applied lipstick, eyeshadow, resisted the rocking of the bus, the collapsing pathways down to the place we'll drown where we'll fire up the bottom of the river, the ocean, the space black at the horizons and fill it just with our heartbeats to hammer at the other shore the other shore we'll drop like rocks until we kiss bottom
She filled the gulf between with mouthed dream particles, with stretches, moments against me, her breasts pooled there, my eyes unable to look up, my hands following like fishes on the line. She was orange, in her mouth. I remembered rolling aside, laying on my back a picture of the roof blown off, the sky positively booming with the light of stars, constellations risen with a KLANG and my Third Person traipsed away from me, down the Learned Highway. To her, of course. Always only her, past exits and plowed fields, divergent roads, ill-lit farmhouses, barely remembered valley and well-meandered streams. My stung heart pumped fire into my belly, a corona in my lungs, stars across my vocal chords! until I murmured mixed up nonsense, lyrics from lost songs invented and forgotten in the singing of them, voices in chorus "If I could take the fire out from the water/
I'd take you where nobody knows you/And nobody gives a damn/I said nobody knows you/and nobody gives a damn either way
About your blood/your bones/your voice/and ghost" almost done now i know he's thinking.
Kill them in our eyes, work loose their favorite teeth, their most loved dolls. i croon, pine over your seed, your memory of events to come, your thick lust for nostalgia, elegy in each orgasm. I forgot a moment about my promise when I left my beloved borderlands behind, cross those forgotten bridges and unravel the City of the Markets of the Dead. My arrow was dulled by the reddening of the leaves, the cooling of the air. I'd sworn I could do it, push it once in the throat and it would swallow, and all would be forgotten while it convulsed there. That voice then, "I smell you out there making you moves, settling your dry pale fingers over my mouth and abdomen." had I forgotten his goal? My promises spent in a trice, my answer to his question paid as a dividend of careening automobiles, sparkling lights, wistful mornings watching the sun rise over the river? I long to fix upon a clock, a known thing, a measured dram of evidence of the Prime Mover's meddling. But know it's only the bitter breaking tool of the Angry Men, their music in our heads in the wheels of their justice against us, tiny and focused upon me. I felt alive then, the memory of him and his fists, thrust as wards against the flood of my weaknesses, our shared face jutted forward fiercely. O we make more in utterances, "You alive but cold," than we ever did in touching. He, like the limbs of starflight, bursts of flame, silent contrails, impossible flight, looking amid the events as if seconds were trenches into which they poured our dead.
Great clouds of diesel smoke wrote across my memories of her. Din and din, the clamor of young voices over the grind of the morning bus! Their bodies leapt and hands rumble through the reeking well-dieseled air. They excited us, these boys on their run into the heart of downtown, their tales of baby faced girls (hips angled, mouths puckered, voiced pitched, all just-so) and their cavaliers, jousting through the depth of the Middens. "Aww yeah, that was that was," he hollered, interruption upon interruption words drawn out exaggerated pulled like taffy through their endlessly revolving hands. "We was so draunk, we was runnin we was--" now the other one, "an we jook yeah we go to get that blunt anwe be--" now the third, "I was like walk faster walk faster til we runnin cuz summa them niggaz startin to recognize my face--" now the first, "it was all like 3 in the mornin an we be thonly ones out there nigga and that ainta good time for the niggaz" "thas what I say nigga, thas why I say we gots to walk faster" "cuz some niggaz startin to reckanize my face" "aww" But over all this, sharp like a cool drink she whispered through the clearing morning blue "I'm tired" and applied lipstick, eyeshadow, resisted the rocking of the bus, the collapsing pathways down to the place we'll drown where we'll fire up the bottom of the river, the ocean, the space black at the horizons and fill it just with our heartbeats to hammer at the other shore the other shore we'll drop like rocks until we kiss bottom
She filled the gulf between with mouthed dream particles, with stretches, moments against me, her breasts pooled there, my eyes unable to look up, my hands following like fishes on the line. She was orange, in her mouth. I remembered rolling aside, laying on my back a picture of the roof blown off, the sky positively booming with the light of stars, constellations risen with a KLANG and my Third Person traipsed away from me, down the Learned Highway. To her, of course. Always only her, past exits and plowed fields, divergent roads, ill-lit farmhouses, barely remembered valley and well-meandered streams. My stung heart pumped fire into my belly, a corona in my lungs, stars across my vocal chords! until I murmured mixed up nonsense, lyrics from lost songs invented and forgotten in the singing of them, voices in chorus "If I could take the fire out from the water/
I'd take you where nobody knows you/And nobody gives a damn/I said nobody knows you/and nobody gives a damn either way
About your blood/your bones/your voice/and ghost" almost done now i know he's thinking.
Kill them in our eyes, work loose their favorite teeth, their most loved dolls. i croon, pine over your seed, your memory of events to come, your thick lust for nostalgia, elegy in each orgasm. I forgot a moment about my promise when I left my beloved borderlands behind, cross those forgotten bridges and unravel the City of the Markets of the Dead. My arrow was dulled by the reddening of the leaves, the cooling of the air. I'd sworn I could do it, push it once in the throat and it would swallow, and all would be forgotten while it convulsed there. That voice then, "I smell you out there making you moves, settling your dry pale fingers over my mouth and abdomen." had I forgotten his goal? My promises spent in a trice, my answer to his question paid as a dividend of careening automobiles, sparkling lights, wistful mornings watching the sun rise over the river? I long to fix upon a clock, a known thing, a measured dram of evidence of the Prime Mover's meddling. But know it's only the bitter breaking tool of the Angry Men, their music in our heads in the wheels of their justice against us, tiny and focused upon me. I felt alive then, the memory of him and his fists, thrust as wards against the flood of my weaknesses, our shared face jutted forward fiercely. O we make more in utterances, "You alive but cold," than we ever did in touching. He, like the limbs of starflight, bursts of flame, silent contrails, impossible flight, looking amid the events as if seconds were trenches into which they poured our dead.