A last date, disguised… She dolled up. He dressed her down. An ant, under skies…
Broccoli ‘tween teeth, He wrestles with her conscience. And strong-arms her gaze.
Ants at the table… Under heel, he’ll never be. Under thumb, she’ll sink.
A breeze flaunts itself, Air binds the frosty couple Shrouded by the bill.
Doctor Wright, does nothing wrong. When not arranging information, she sits perfectly still.
Hard blinks for discomfort, or to wrap things up. Her lids soft-close, to say ‘it’s your turn to speak’. Her honey words, “Please, go on.”— soothe. And break her steely cover.
Doctor Wright taps out, to clipboard.
“‘All give way to metamorphosis. Migration is expected. In fits and starts is the trek, toward needed change.
All meet and greet, and relate— to create, but lose some, along the way.
Some soldiers carry the wounded. Flesh, yet to succumb to its fate. Bones worn inside-out. Exoskeletons crushed, ‘tween rock and heavy feet.
Under heel, pain is apparent. Souls dejected, from squashed to dead. And so, the ‘Great Move’ begins. An exodus divorces the messy past. All to sniff-out freedom!’— Or words to that effect.
He prodded with a fattened finger— squeezed by a misplaced wedding ring. ‘This gang, are gatherers— see the leaves?’”
Doctor Wright leans in, “Go on, please.”
“‘Backs bent by fallen foliage. The small and mighty, haul and shift a scintillating, dark bronzed forest floor.
And the brood— the babies, they’re carried too.’ He said.
I traced the string of galloping ants. Some speckled, white or green with youth.
‘What can I carry daddy— What should I take?’
‘It’s late, Take those.’ With a wink.
I bundled dolls and rocks and leaves; cradled all, in miniature arms. Piled high, to sightless, led to stumbles—an awkward trek back to his car.
‘Drop you at your mum’s, she’ll be waiting.’
THAT’S when I knew the world was sick—first lesson in ‘climate’ change, with love from Mum and Dad.”
Tappy-tappy, tappy-tappy. Seeing the discomfort, Doctor Wright taps-in, with a thumb to Parker pen. Deflating her small frame, with crafty finesse, she breathes, “Please, go on.”
40 kilograms, plus bar. Shiny with dull bits. Cold. Grip. Chafe. Don't sweat it. 'WE' won't, because the chaff falls off.
Funny that I can slip into two people. Good cop, bad cop. A couple of diehards. It gets loud though, like a zealous mom at a PTA. The screamer, always got something to say.
Gah! So heavy! Or tell yourself it's light, and it'll be just that! Pff! I guess for now, it's heavy.
All pressure. Deadlift. Lift dead weight. "HEV-ee." I'm a ‘hybrid electric vehicle’. Heave and hold for ten. Firm—no, solid. Yes, solid and hold. Whole and complete.
But dead.
The heaviest anything can be, is un-alive. For some, that's inside, somber or complex or... unwanted. That's heavy too. Limp grey body, with thick outlines. It's a sketch. A still animation. Lifeless. Bloated with air.
I'll give you life yet! At its heaviest point—the point in which gravity meets 'matter at its fullest'. This is heaviest.
Wow, grubby hands.
Land this one. All about the bend, in the right places.
Do I need more bends? Hips, knees, ankles. Not stiff, not swollen. "Rheumy lids"—he wrote “Rheumy lids” (ooh, a titter)—image was on point—I liked that. Titter…
Gimme guilt, I laughed. I can own that. Or did I chuckle? "Chuckle", sucks to chuckle. The 'Chuckie' of all laughter. They should ban 'the Netflix "chuckle"'. I should work for Netflix, for the betterment of...
(Clang.) A wobble, no biggie.
Clanking iron—screw them on tighter! So ugly and intrusive. Intruse—intru—doesn't take much. Callow. Callowness. Car. Where was I?
Make that clang melodious! Frame it! give it boundaries, structure and strength! Forever, be strong. With a longevity of say, the Eiffel Tower. Stand tall and fixed. Iron maketh the man—well, a type of man. A Beef-cake?
Strip that down, and we're back to bare bones.
Toned. is. The. Goal. Straighten that back. Expel and breathe. Keep it smooth. Let go of that bloating, second-hand air.
So weird, I'm aware! Gah—what am I getting from this? Bend, bend, tick, tick… You're a robot. Shiny with joints that don’t creak. I'm "Johnny five, is alive!" 'Consistency is key'.
All this, from a dead-LIFT? Gotta write that down. Put it down. And put it down!
(Clunk.)
There is no such thing as a true blue flower. And yet, with them the ground lay thick. Foliage merge, their bleed, a water-colourist’s dream.
And then there’s truth.
A beacon to my hope, it rests behind eroded hinges and a butter-kissed gate of gold.
‘Unhinged’ they’d call me, but they spoke with eyes blind. They are no match for my richest, and most vivid imaginations.
Doubt lurks behind those spineless branches of the old world, and plays tag with celebration.
That ‘is-it-or-isn’t-it’ feeling, still resides within my shadowed self. I tried to shed that weighty shadow from my youth, but its refusal to harken to my zealous heartbeat, stressed my sinew and gnashed at my core.
But now the light will make me new again. For this is the era of rejuvenation. And eased, we shall be.
And the lie of the land will be for all to see.
Its doors are open now.
Words of truth etched in my bones, begin to speak with elevation, and memories take front seat.
‘Oh lie with goodness and rest heavy when your day is done. Your rise will steady your gait and stoke your glow, and loyalty shall rove about your inward parts—afire with love in your heart, as you embrace your days.’
Each mornings’ chant, you did recant, to ‘your’ perfect beat.
And now I shun your passing essence of earthly mornings; the smell of coffee lingers about my nose, merging with the salt-moisture welling in my philtrum.
Dawn holds the cold air tight, and squeezes. And a thousand breaths groan toward rebirth, throwing their discontent upward from the earth. They are swaddled in fake mysticism and conflicted. Blanketed by a bashful pride.
“Drink coffee, stay awake.” they said. “Let your eyes feast, for the gates to Niahgoramesh will be a balm to your ages of patience.”
I never did believe a word of it. Which is why I drank the tea.
And I waited.
Until the gate called to me.
The landing strip lights pin the entrance high, and far into the distance. With each step closer, a new sun winks and teases warmth. Its lure of honey-melt fondles the mouths of the early ones and to its warriors, brags a hearty fill.
I don’t know why I know this, I just do.
I will protect them all from altercation and wrestle back to ground any and all, who crawl on hand and foot to share their plague.
Those man-stains drank the coffee, but failed to smell the roses.
Sleep on they will, for blue roses are what they claimed to see. Their legitimacy lies beside them, spooning their slumber.
Look how they love with intimacy!
And ash and greys and granite crowns glorify their airy hard rock heads. Thoughtlessness lines their skulls.
Unjust?
How unloveable they are.
My philtral contour stretches to a smile, welcoming the golden brights. I now know, I was never blue.
Hope and Despair, Solitaires aglow with flare. An odd questionable friendship. Valuable nonetheless.
And so what of it— The strain between us two? Friendships are one-sided, Often the one will have no clue.
Despair sits on its derrière, grunting
And happy is Hope hunting—hard at play.
Holding hands, we both begin instructing.
No fake friendship, our act a fine display.
Stark can be our difference. Trust can be our reference. Neither party would exist Without a blip.
Our sodality is crystal clear It binds our hearts and soothes for weeks And wipes our ‘half glass empty’ tears From blotchy lacquered cheeks.
We see and mask ourselves with paint But you, I know your flush, I’m gagged—you wink at my restraint When I bow to your low hush
You, are my constant. You cradle my despair And kick to curb its laughter ‘Til hope becomes its heir…
It’s not our incompatibilities, that sting it is any InConSiStEncy.
He slithered along our canal, To screams “T’ward the light!” Scuffles ensued. They tried to corral As arms rowed, with all their might.
At tunnel’s end, on knees he crawled And balked, at the gate to the realm. Without map, and head against the wall He’d lost his chance to take the helm.
He’d carved a life that fell ‘to a pattern. One famously infamous, with peculiarities. His world of strife, cloaked in high end fashion. Artsy. Like no other’s self-conceit.
I was a babe in the womb, To a world of blackened sea. I began to lose myself—like him. And the world grew blind to me!
And so we split. And split again. I fled his 'neurotic pathways’. Out of orbit. Untouched by his infectious 'pain-demic'
His soul laid bare, below the scribe’s hand. But in a ‘bang!’ Found its way to the Lord. Chest of bones to heaven, but also to land. His sunken flesh now cradles his hoard.
“And here lies Gluteus Maximus. This Butt-Head, head-butted Earth’s mass of rock-moss. Waged war, with the simple and hardiest folk. And whose anger, we dared not evoke.
He was short in stature and temper. With morals bound to his mother. Lacked zeal and heart to venture, And shunned his pitiful brother."
If birth is right and death is wrong And in outstretched caskets we splay, In life we don’t always sing the same song. But in time, we will find our own way.
Sweetness and Softness, were old friends Seldom heard from, in song. They refused to make amends, Not knowing right from wrong.
To my downfall they did devote Leaving long ago. But they’d visit in my darkest hour, And shower me with hope.
One fateful night they killed my trust, And stomped to ground my soul. A pact they’d made, to serenade And steal from my heart’s gold.
Each held firm their dainty hands— Take note of love’s discord. They squeezed with glee, my cardboard throat. And smiled down, my dying chords.
They reject bye-byes with bitter lullabies. Note perfect, but sing off-key. Spit venom to blind and bind my highs Twins entwined, in love’s envy.
A hardened heart now awaits their return. Will they soften or leave destruction? Oh Sweetness and Softness, for you I yearn… Come, caress without seduction.
"It is with discomfort and much burden, that power is born..."
Year 1: Vision 1.0. Physical sight and thought. Depending on genetics and fortune, the scale is 'Ash Grey to Endless Possibilities'.
Year 2: Super Scream. An hypnotic, soul-piercing shrill of manipulation. Builds strong societal bonds. Essential for the continuation of any clan existence.
Year 3: A Walk-Run-Trot. To keep pace with The Guardians of Earth.
Year 5: Imagination. An imagination that runs like a ravenous wildling. If harnessed with purpose and accuracy, the beast can conquer The Guardians of Earth in a matter of months.
Year 6: A Jump-Rope-Super-Skip. Establishes control with a whip.
Year 7: Slight-Of-Hand. Can make all things sweet, disappear.
Year 9: Super Tastebuds. Can out-taste the sharpest chefs.
Year 10: Calibration. Dormant powers recounted.
Year 11-14: Emotion Gifting. A powerful ‘emotion seed’ blossoms. Implants are available to qualifying parties.
Year 15: Social Sensitivity. Can dominate a room by retracting to a corner and sitting in silence.
Year 16+: Compression 1.0 An individual can alter any given space, within a short period of time. An empty space can be filled with junk in a blink of an eye. They can create new worlds. With added ‘brain wave compression’, The Gifted can transform space inside and outside of their body mass.
Year 17-18: All-Knowing. Can manifest an infestation of wisdom.
Year 19: Super Bladder Sheds only 'one wee per two pints.'
Year 20: Recalibration.
Year 21: Super Chest. Can command the masses with a 'puffed-up' motion, or 'hex with a flex'.
Year 22: Hope. A super power that’s a real 'grower’. It can shape the future with thought alone. Plant it in an environment of undeniable chaos, then sit back and watch it flourish.
Note: must show early signs of this power by 'year 13' or its full strength cannot bloom. If released after year 30, version 1.1 (Hope-less-dope) will override all powers. The individual will become POWERLESS.
Year 23: The Love Power 1.0. A power to receive love.
Year 24: The Love Power 4.0. A power to give love.
Year 25-29: Super Compression. After gathering with two or more close friends an individual can compress reality. The level of relaxation determines the strength of power.
Year 30: Calibration.
Year 31-39: A Subtle Sob. An hypnotic, soul-soothing whimper—an upgrade from 'Super scream', to 'masterful manipulation'.
Year 40: A 'Sparked' Calibration. If super powers are not evident or remain dormant, individuals can invest in an IOU device or an ‘IHDK’ device. See page 19274693987626 for eligibility requirements.
Year 50: Recalibration. A 'year 50' recalibration can trigger dormant 'first powers'. To maintain eligibility, excessive high value purchases that have the ability to impress 'everyone', are mandatory.
Year 60: Recalibration.
Year 61: Titanium bladder. An individual can 'hold one's bladder' and 'never let go'. A time-saving super power, that can claw back decades of lost 'me-time'.
Rarely can this super power reveal itself in years younger than 61. When found in years 2 to 10, dire consequences ensue. Bloating, powerless screaming, water-retention, kidney failure and death. Special note: these heirs are no longer able to travel between planes of existence.
A note of special circumstance** Young recipients of the 'Titanium Bladder' can 'gift' their super power.
Year 62-69: Vision 1.1. Physical sight and thoughtfulness. Depending on genetics and fortune, the scale is 'Endless Possibilities to Ash Grey'.
Year 70: Calibration Decoding.
Year 71-80: A Subtle Sob. An enchanting, soul-destroying lament. An upgrade to 'kin-pin-manipulation', this much sought after super power can move relatives and close friends to act with haste to any request. With compassion and without question.
"Shapeless they are! Let us inculcate the embryo of The Guardian of Earth..."
Moons turn and suns arc.
"What year shall we embed, for power will be inbred..."
And as the months roll on, an assignation of unknown power is born. Its strength will come to pass, only to embrace rebirth.
“And should ‘our love’ fall on ‘a year of calibration’, such embryo will bear the mark of uncertainty.
And you, Dear Do dance away the black of night. In twists and turns you alter, To put the world from wrongs to right.
The many stars are your hopes pinned. Beacons of shimmer, golden But you ‘jackal the light’ and trust rescinds. Striking maternal tales, EMBOLDEN.
Your youth has an itch, That only Nox can scratch. And so slurp after slurp ‘Hard knocks’ of Vodka line your hatch
At the dawn of a pale cast Blue. After hours squeezedinaroom Stilled are the trees, calmed by light breeze As flocculent clouds chase you allthewayhome.
Neologistic warrior, Who runs and laughs like you? You. Are. Special; you radiate ‘the new’. As scuffs reveal the exploits of your playshoes.
The hyena’s jagged hand, tempts you still. Go 'nunights'. Rest, and breathe and repeat... Who creeps the worn stairs, in those yawnful hours? Not once do you fail, to caress the creak
Of that Splintered First Step.
