Post by Contention on Apr 2, 2007 23:56:20 GMT -5
It was a dark place, but dark wouldn’t cut it. No word could, nobody could. People had seen it, thought about it, and left it. To them, it was stranger; someone or something dispensable. Yet, like the novel it challenged them; supported a game. They could tear open each page, read every line, and stumble in some drunken inertia. All it respected was fire: the willow soot, that welted flare – eclipsing ellipse. There to burn, char and brown; crippled and cracked: indescribable, non admirable. Rejected, not by definition, but lack there of. Such was nature, nomenclature; to destroy the unrefined. Perhaps by fear or arrogance, both were without knowledge. These things were the things that fell on widows’ lips - as rain upon the city, ice against the freeze. Where, in delightful need to twist, fact replaced fiction.
Mayhap curiosity pulls the linen cords, maybe it is wit; either way, it remains inevitable. As flame to the brush, so are the words of thousands.
To him, it was nothing but structure; straight and narrow, thin and lean: upwards jotting - lucid splotch, grim restraint. Industrial ambition crooned its cheek; ruby red stones swept with tears, woes of soot, grieves of ash. Smothered in smog: broken and scorned, sat alone; stiller than the predator for its prey. As if waiting, plotting, conceiving to pounce. From time to iridescent time; warmth emitted past embrace: peering through each ‘sill, into the open, a’ cast the night. Many a foot traversed its path, weighing its walks, breaking its bones; yet without complaint or compliance, it sustained – crippled and stippled. There, in the ocean - the sunken vessel, the broken mass. Deep and buried, beneath the wade, the wave; where no man could mingle. On the floor settled - snuggled by sand; every grain, every texture, the blind blanket – the infants quilt. Shaded with no sun, obscured from twighlight; sleeping cement, coffin shut. What was once so proud, gleaming in life; was shifting downwards, downwards - beat to die; weary as the dreary eye.
Above the sight of passing mind, wandered chimney towers: pushing and pushing, filling and peeling, smacking and whacking. Letting loose black canopy, the brimstone sound, fitting in the world around; where chaos loomed, and leeches fed upon the writings of the dead. A piece of heaven, torn through hell; riddled in that Satan’s spell. Kindled golden, shining bright: charcoal of the spire. As a mound, spurred; blight of Earth – plague of the sane, salvations steal. Scratched amongst the surface, bled to boil; seeping, oozing, and losing - pale and stale, oldest ale. It was whiskey on the throat, quencher of the thirst, wheeler of the hearse. To the sorest disposition, it was home; a stead so fair that even the air could not please, or ease. Lack roamed, tightened full; chocking and yoking. Swept away, not on wind, but the greed of sin - lust to thrust, to pressure, to sting.
Time had come and time had went; yonder someplace, someplace far - where no creature dare breed, where no folly would fall. Upon these hands – turning bands - it weighed; moving imbalance - straying and praying, eternal devotion. Yet, however fingers crossed; naught an inch was forgiven. God had come, and sought; praising and raising. He schemed and dreamed with vision bewildered; methods of madness, bits of sadness. Lightly footed, passing so; no faith expelled, no hope inspired. For, what security could grow in such place? The demons themselves had scavenged; tearing - limb from limb, piece by piece. Hell was a step away – beneath: clawing and sawing - ready to drag, ready to snag; pulling down and down, deeper than deep. If one had noticed, perking soft; sounds of age would embellish: to rock, and to squander. They were, indeed, the tunes of decay - staffs in erosion. Wiping away, falling away; inwards, outwards, round about. Wrinkles in the sprinkle: rusting pitter, molded patter. Bang, bang; sliding drops, strum of the drum. Whipping flashes and snapping bulbs – engravings, disgraceful engravings.
Man and abode, entwined in time; wrapped sublime. Two the same, familiar game; playing part without a start.
Illusion called him, whispered to him - bickered in the ear. Against - nibbling and chewing – allured, to strew the stew. Curving finger flowed; beckoning and reckoning. Solemn silence waited and debated; cringing in moments turn, scornful burn. Amidst the flesh, it hovered, frightened to touch; afraid to break what it would make. Glancing, his eyes could not help but shiver; to quiver in mute breeze. They to, as the mouth, spoke through words: impossible verbs, incredible nouns - without lips, brittle tips, nor simple tongue. For the pupil was his throat and the iris its receiver. What they saw, could not detail: could not entail, or retail. It was insoluble, only by description unwound. He -familiarity, sense of relation; a tree with sprouting roots. Body aligned, edged as the branches on oak; sorrowful stance: fingers - feathers to the ground. He - peasant on kingdom’s keep, heretic on heaven’s door. Out of equality, blaring star in canvas sky; not a touch of change, nothing of dollars worth. Variables could search, equations imply; yet, equality was no vein, no sty.
As he gathered, so did the world; beneath the toes, swirling forward; lunging, as if to beat him, as if to race. It was so, that the universe conjoined would challenge and mock. At times, to leave, escape - floor estranged, foot entangled. In the mass of reality, bodies would seethe, searching by vice. Thickets of wilderness - smothering, blundering. Such was the way things were, and would always be. This was acknowledged, this was understood; or so, by nodding, in all agreed. However, presently; the world did not form rally, it did not compete. Obstruct, halting; shadowed in abode, glared by revision. Face to formal face, came, and sprang. Haunted, chilled in the slice – that spice. Teeth quaking, ground breaking – alone, desolate; buried, dead. Mother garbed her children, cloth in cloth; soaking dry. Quickly portioned, rustling; through the door, out the side. Where lofty did intrusion bide.
Earth herself, saw no doubt; of what had yet to fall right out. Time had changed, rearranged; gears were sprung, heads were hung.
Walking, walking – feet to share, wrathful tear. Closer presumed, snapped the tomb. Jaws, jaws, jagged teeth; side to side, trembling. In pattern they ran, long and short, long and short; drenched, not by blood, but sweat of frustration: dew of anger, splish of arrogance. Yet, no fear caught, taught, or wrought. Within the mouth he drew, stepping, stepping: thump and thump.
If there were others, could they have seen – marking resemblance: object to man? As a gun, shot; shredding normality, ripping seams. Lanky, did he wallow; and as to why, none could portion. There were few, who had time, or took the time; to fully comprehend the situation, habitation of the heart. If managed, with class raff; discovery would faint allow. For, no ruler, no test, nor teacher could preach the scroll of rapture. Not a single palette could thatch its rumble, string its ambitions. His frame stood - symbolically - twisted, putted, and rutted. As if bone displaced: socket to socket - musical game. Yet, menial qualms stabbed; small blades flew – scars and cuts, meager ruts. Within expression, gathered detention – loss of value, mercy dire. Thinnest skin, pale complexion; stood erection. Fragile pucker, redressing stitch – worthless hitch: never to open, never to say, never to play. Hands for fingers, fingers for arms; legs in motion – simple devotion. Stare objective, physical line – out of rhyme.
Slip – slap – slip – slap sparred the dirt; woken in water, washed in rain. Cringing and wrenching: abused and used. Mashed and mussed, liquid rust: muddy swell. Amidst the sole reversing - plucking, tucking. At contact snatching: arms wide - as magnet to metal. Negative and positive: connective, objective. Where once was stability, now was faith. Every step, unlikely, undaunted; leading nowhere, everywhere. Hopelessly sparing; smashing grain; wiping plain. It was this creation which deviled; from soils, from dirt. Till standing, would sickle; a fickle figure. Molding womb, divided; a splinter in the side, a nail in the board. There he, saturated and liquefied, would manage; to waddle, across the oceans, across the seas, in bare of transparency. This being, drenched and drooping; seeking no salvation, no ring of altitude. Positioned, enigmatic; single thread in dolls’ smile.
Overhead, under palm, gathered and hustled - it gestured, it festered. Calling, weeping, and tweaking: the church bell for mass. Ring-A-Ding, Ring-A-Ding; muffled in thunder, blinded by light. Yet he could hear it, it was his. Dreams cuddled, huddled; two tales, two sources; to join forces, combine. The cast were fast to pillage; to step its stoop, and flee the coop. The forgotten, blissfully gathered in loft; a loft of space: where not an inch received, nor deceived. This was it, it had to be; nothing, not one nightmare, could ever ruin such choice, such pledge.
Crick and crack - snip and snap. Bitterly wounded.
Advancing, advancing; press for press, every foot was just a jest. The limb of the tree, the bark of the boat: he, lesser, invaluable. A part, a piece - astray of the corner, amidst the line; jagged edge to birthing bulge – allusive, distraught. White on black, black on white - swirling gray, social sight: outcast, burdened – fortune to folly’s door. Pressured, granite: stone. Beneath gravity, under helms; whispering, wishing, wanting. He: a layer, a section; it: a valley, a forge.
And O
How it stared: wild, loose, and free. Expression, as the chariot, had driven: sped – away, long ways away. Without reflection it spied the heat; tainted the tongue. Teasingly licking, picking, and tricking. Yet it remained kempt, between shutters; blue and through – lids, swollen lids. Little did yellow glare - sparkle, shimmer, or shine. For tightly held each draw, each door, each ridge; leaving it uncharted, untouched - cold and barren, empty and wet.
He had seen it, distraught and spayed - snapped from production. Assembly gone awry, sitting still - gravestone in the chill. At once, to push and apply - working, working, and working. But now, as the weed, the seed with intention: it sprouted dementia. The angel, burly white; singing in tune, simple swoon. Till slain in ambition, all support – the sport; to run red and bleed dead. Thrown, relinquished, relieved – tossed from the pedestal, slit at the heel. Stumbling and mumbling – crazed and phased – cleansed of sense. The spotlight had focused: compassed; circled the spot, and showered – spewing bright beams. But, the bulb had dimmed, and passed; leaving ‘err. Alone it squandered. Alone it led. Alone, it was beautiful; alone, it was hideous. Alone, and alone, and alone.
In front and behind; there spied both a’ door. One way in, another out; separate entities, not related. One licked its chops, the other expelled - or withheld. Regardless, they were brethren; hooked to the fish, and bred in the boil. Draped in blue, they caught – locked, bolted, and molted. A fresh dew of paint, a swipe of the brush; brightly aced the hue, regardless of tether – weather. Yet under the pane, embraced change – a lift, a difference, a brown. And down would wander the drip, the drop; to halt and stop, to abrupt the eruption. For the blue would never rearrange; under the belt, the house would contain.
Even the handles had crusted and trusted the blue, the milky sky. Around the neck, it grew, and grew - riding, dividing, and multiplying. As he approached, he was dazzled, frazzled: wondering as to if, he himself, had stepped into the river. The running rapids, and was trampled – buried by the rush, the water.
Gasping for breath – reviving – but finding none; swapping about, floundering, struck about shore. Finding solid and standing - handing out, walking out. Palms slapped on sketched boards, parallel lines. Humanity, on manifestation; becoming, submitting.
Far ahead, yet closer than close – there the passage, there was all. And, how his fingers trickled; condensation upon the glass - glazing and razing. Springing out, ten to untie - ribbons unwound; noosing loosely, and turning – yearning. Flushing its body, her body; once so pale, had bloomed. But how it stung, like the bee to the rose; imposed, but gentile. Taking his honey - his wealth; sucking and sucking, till gone. Evaporated, he beat; he held rhythm, and knew not the sound.
But she did, she knew it; she knew him, or at least. So he thought. Into her, his journey swept, and kept. Interior, was absent; everything, was absent. Only she remained; far from plain, far from sane. Hand through hand, they cupped; and together, they drunk. They sipped the glass, stole the crystal; and together, ran. And, how she piled - black and long, black and short. Her face, had squeezed his own; lemon to the pitcher, corn to the cob. In fact, she was him; she was everything he was.
Spring time enveloped her, summer pitied her, and winter took her. Nature, itself, was envious; biting its roots, slitting the storm. For, what could compare to her; unadulterated, unprepared? Inhumane, innocent – freshly round, pleasantly by. It was this that drove him; made him talk, made him balk. And, into every word, she fell – attention derived, deprived, and alive. She was queen - the dealer and wheeler; baker of the loaf, yeast on the pan.
Though, without mistake, she was loomed by blue – euphoria. Perhaps, she was not strived in blood; her engines, lubricated, by purification. Her own figure would ripple, and at times, splash – moist, incredibly moist. At the lake side - there – she would salute and dilute. Hypnotized and mesmerized – villain in the mask, the flask: to bask. By daylight, she stared; not ahead, nor below. But high, higher than high; further than the clouds, farther than the shrouds. Not daunted by objects, but only specification.
She had told him, of her love: a love so slaughtered, that no butcher dare touch the aftermath; that no stomach could stand to spot the scene. How, tangled it was; how, unruly it was. Decapitated, and still holding - still moving. Torn, into numbers - to swim or march - to follow a path, to take a side. Lustfully, he pleaded, or heeded: for her to stay, for her to instill. But even in delusion, he saw her eyes; rushing with the water, the blue.
All the while, he held her; even in obsession. His obsession. But not even he could control the want of wave; the need of sea.
Released, she was free; free enough to drown. Descending, leaving. Lack of goodbye.
In bitter taste, he whelmed her; netted her, and slept for her. His own tongue spoke, heavily:
Do you not love?
I love.
Do you not see?
I see.
Why do you leave?
For my thirst.
Why do you sink?
For my thirst.
Where will you go?
Beneath.
How do you feel?
Nothing.
I
Feel
Nothing.
She was gone. It was gone. And in that place. Remained the reflecting pool; where she had swallowed, and hallowed. Where she had taken her love, and left. And left.
And there he wallowed. Wallowed. Writhing in pattern; mourning by loss; the cost, the cost - where memory pricked, and he, was the instrument; playing, softly playing. Along the coast, he hummed; whispering to her, talking to her. But the pool lapped, and laughed, and dribbled. So that his words, were nothing more but fragments. Lost, and murdered. Murdered.
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(This might be best, read aloud. Sure it's long, so don't worry about it; and don't bother with it. But, if the punctuation seems weird. It is. Why? Because it's in poem format, not so much story format. It's abstract. Reading it aloud, and following punctuation, may help)
Blah,
To begin with, this piece is horribly abstract. Understanding it, is totally up to what the reader wants. It still seems so short, and so cut up; like it was spit out. Yet, in entirety; the piece took about two to three weeks to write. Merely because the emotion for it, kept going and coming. Sort of like, constipation. If you dare even touch that. But, something of that likes. To even glimpse as to what this piece means, and why that's the title; personal areas would have to be pushed. Something about the word hopelessness is extremly appealing. It rolls off the tongue; and hopeless is obviously a feeling of having no hope. But the ness, makes it an emotion. Something at the current moment that you're going through; and it's different, it's peculiar. When reading this, that may be picked up.
Simply, the plot is not to difficult. A man, without a name, unless you give him one; is simply walking up to this house. This, is where the abstract comes in. The house, is not just a house. As explained, to him it's just a normal abode. But, to everyone else; it's useless, ugly, and not needed. It's horrific, and utterly repulsive. Yet, to him, it's just a plain and simple abode. However, the scum of the earth. Pollution. Burries it, and wears it. So, you do get a bit of influence from the outside world. As the man begins to walk toward the house; take notice of the rain. Say, that water uses the main image of blue. The rain, or water, is already pouring upon the man. Beating him, in that sense. It also leaves "welts" or scars upon the house. This is all blue. The color blue has meaning. As he goes further into the house; it's also noted that the world will not follow him.
Reality decides to stop going into the house, to not take place in there. It's not welcome. So, his journey does eventually lead him to the steps; where he is overcome by the strange amounts of blue, in the window sills and doorways. They seem to suffocate the house and keep out any use of sunshine. Or yellow. The man eventually opens the door to the house. Where, instead of going inside; he grabs the hand of a girl. So, it flows off from this point. The house, in total, is a woman; or so he sees. A beautiful, understanding woman. The story explains no time that passes; but they seem to connect. It's in this connection, that the girl explains her love for the water, and her love for the man. In total, she chooses the water. Knowing she can't live without it. She is, as explained; part of the water. So she leaves, and in that, he can not understand. So he questions her.
The voice part, is abstract.
She leaves, and that's where the hopelessness comes from. Do what you want. This piece seems so off, and an apology for that.
Mayhap curiosity pulls the linen cords, maybe it is wit; either way, it remains inevitable. As flame to the brush, so are the words of thousands.
To him, it was nothing but structure; straight and narrow, thin and lean: upwards jotting - lucid splotch, grim restraint. Industrial ambition crooned its cheek; ruby red stones swept with tears, woes of soot, grieves of ash. Smothered in smog: broken and scorned, sat alone; stiller than the predator for its prey. As if waiting, plotting, conceiving to pounce. From time to iridescent time; warmth emitted past embrace: peering through each ‘sill, into the open, a’ cast the night. Many a foot traversed its path, weighing its walks, breaking its bones; yet without complaint or compliance, it sustained – crippled and stippled. There, in the ocean - the sunken vessel, the broken mass. Deep and buried, beneath the wade, the wave; where no man could mingle. On the floor settled - snuggled by sand; every grain, every texture, the blind blanket – the infants quilt. Shaded with no sun, obscured from twighlight; sleeping cement, coffin shut. What was once so proud, gleaming in life; was shifting downwards, downwards - beat to die; weary as the dreary eye.
Above the sight of passing mind, wandered chimney towers: pushing and pushing, filling and peeling, smacking and whacking. Letting loose black canopy, the brimstone sound, fitting in the world around; where chaos loomed, and leeches fed upon the writings of the dead. A piece of heaven, torn through hell; riddled in that Satan’s spell. Kindled golden, shining bright: charcoal of the spire. As a mound, spurred; blight of Earth – plague of the sane, salvations steal. Scratched amongst the surface, bled to boil; seeping, oozing, and losing - pale and stale, oldest ale. It was whiskey on the throat, quencher of the thirst, wheeler of the hearse. To the sorest disposition, it was home; a stead so fair that even the air could not please, or ease. Lack roamed, tightened full; chocking and yoking. Swept away, not on wind, but the greed of sin - lust to thrust, to pressure, to sting.
Time had come and time had went; yonder someplace, someplace far - where no creature dare breed, where no folly would fall. Upon these hands – turning bands - it weighed; moving imbalance - straying and praying, eternal devotion. Yet, however fingers crossed; naught an inch was forgiven. God had come, and sought; praising and raising. He schemed and dreamed with vision bewildered; methods of madness, bits of sadness. Lightly footed, passing so; no faith expelled, no hope inspired. For, what security could grow in such place? The demons themselves had scavenged; tearing - limb from limb, piece by piece. Hell was a step away – beneath: clawing and sawing - ready to drag, ready to snag; pulling down and down, deeper than deep. If one had noticed, perking soft; sounds of age would embellish: to rock, and to squander. They were, indeed, the tunes of decay - staffs in erosion. Wiping away, falling away; inwards, outwards, round about. Wrinkles in the sprinkle: rusting pitter, molded patter. Bang, bang; sliding drops, strum of the drum. Whipping flashes and snapping bulbs – engravings, disgraceful engravings.
Man and abode, entwined in time; wrapped sublime. Two the same, familiar game; playing part without a start.
Illusion called him, whispered to him - bickered in the ear. Against - nibbling and chewing – allured, to strew the stew. Curving finger flowed; beckoning and reckoning. Solemn silence waited and debated; cringing in moments turn, scornful burn. Amidst the flesh, it hovered, frightened to touch; afraid to break what it would make. Glancing, his eyes could not help but shiver; to quiver in mute breeze. They to, as the mouth, spoke through words: impossible verbs, incredible nouns - without lips, brittle tips, nor simple tongue. For the pupil was his throat and the iris its receiver. What they saw, could not detail: could not entail, or retail. It was insoluble, only by description unwound. He -familiarity, sense of relation; a tree with sprouting roots. Body aligned, edged as the branches on oak; sorrowful stance: fingers - feathers to the ground. He - peasant on kingdom’s keep, heretic on heaven’s door. Out of equality, blaring star in canvas sky; not a touch of change, nothing of dollars worth. Variables could search, equations imply; yet, equality was no vein, no sty.
As he gathered, so did the world; beneath the toes, swirling forward; lunging, as if to beat him, as if to race. It was so, that the universe conjoined would challenge and mock. At times, to leave, escape - floor estranged, foot entangled. In the mass of reality, bodies would seethe, searching by vice. Thickets of wilderness - smothering, blundering. Such was the way things were, and would always be. This was acknowledged, this was understood; or so, by nodding, in all agreed. However, presently; the world did not form rally, it did not compete. Obstruct, halting; shadowed in abode, glared by revision. Face to formal face, came, and sprang. Haunted, chilled in the slice – that spice. Teeth quaking, ground breaking – alone, desolate; buried, dead. Mother garbed her children, cloth in cloth; soaking dry. Quickly portioned, rustling; through the door, out the side. Where lofty did intrusion bide.
Earth herself, saw no doubt; of what had yet to fall right out. Time had changed, rearranged; gears were sprung, heads were hung.
Walking, walking – feet to share, wrathful tear. Closer presumed, snapped the tomb. Jaws, jaws, jagged teeth; side to side, trembling. In pattern they ran, long and short, long and short; drenched, not by blood, but sweat of frustration: dew of anger, splish of arrogance. Yet, no fear caught, taught, or wrought. Within the mouth he drew, stepping, stepping: thump and thump.
If there were others, could they have seen – marking resemblance: object to man? As a gun, shot; shredding normality, ripping seams. Lanky, did he wallow; and as to why, none could portion. There were few, who had time, or took the time; to fully comprehend the situation, habitation of the heart. If managed, with class raff; discovery would faint allow. For, no ruler, no test, nor teacher could preach the scroll of rapture. Not a single palette could thatch its rumble, string its ambitions. His frame stood - symbolically - twisted, putted, and rutted. As if bone displaced: socket to socket - musical game. Yet, menial qualms stabbed; small blades flew – scars and cuts, meager ruts. Within expression, gathered detention – loss of value, mercy dire. Thinnest skin, pale complexion; stood erection. Fragile pucker, redressing stitch – worthless hitch: never to open, never to say, never to play. Hands for fingers, fingers for arms; legs in motion – simple devotion. Stare objective, physical line – out of rhyme.
Slip – slap – slip – slap sparred the dirt; woken in water, washed in rain. Cringing and wrenching: abused and used. Mashed and mussed, liquid rust: muddy swell. Amidst the sole reversing - plucking, tucking. At contact snatching: arms wide - as magnet to metal. Negative and positive: connective, objective. Where once was stability, now was faith. Every step, unlikely, undaunted; leading nowhere, everywhere. Hopelessly sparing; smashing grain; wiping plain. It was this creation which deviled; from soils, from dirt. Till standing, would sickle; a fickle figure. Molding womb, divided; a splinter in the side, a nail in the board. There he, saturated and liquefied, would manage; to waddle, across the oceans, across the seas, in bare of transparency. This being, drenched and drooping; seeking no salvation, no ring of altitude. Positioned, enigmatic; single thread in dolls’ smile.
Overhead, under palm, gathered and hustled - it gestured, it festered. Calling, weeping, and tweaking: the church bell for mass. Ring-A-Ding, Ring-A-Ding; muffled in thunder, blinded by light. Yet he could hear it, it was his. Dreams cuddled, huddled; two tales, two sources; to join forces, combine. The cast were fast to pillage; to step its stoop, and flee the coop. The forgotten, blissfully gathered in loft; a loft of space: where not an inch received, nor deceived. This was it, it had to be; nothing, not one nightmare, could ever ruin such choice, such pledge.
Crick and crack - snip and snap. Bitterly wounded.
Advancing, advancing; press for press, every foot was just a jest. The limb of the tree, the bark of the boat: he, lesser, invaluable. A part, a piece - astray of the corner, amidst the line; jagged edge to birthing bulge – allusive, distraught. White on black, black on white - swirling gray, social sight: outcast, burdened – fortune to folly’s door. Pressured, granite: stone. Beneath gravity, under helms; whispering, wishing, wanting. He: a layer, a section; it: a valley, a forge.
And O
How it stared: wild, loose, and free. Expression, as the chariot, had driven: sped – away, long ways away. Without reflection it spied the heat; tainted the tongue. Teasingly licking, picking, and tricking. Yet it remained kempt, between shutters; blue and through – lids, swollen lids. Little did yellow glare - sparkle, shimmer, or shine. For tightly held each draw, each door, each ridge; leaving it uncharted, untouched - cold and barren, empty and wet.
He had seen it, distraught and spayed - snapped from production. Assembly gone awry, sitting still - gravestone in the chill. At once, to push and apply - working, working, and working. But now, as the weed, the seed with intention: it sprouted dementia. The angel, burly white; singing in tune, simple swoon. Till slain in ambition, all support – the sport; to run red and bleed dead. Thrown, relinquished, relieved – tossed from the pedestal, slit at the heel. Stumbling and mumbling – crazed and phased – cleansed of sense. The spotlight had focused: compassed; circled the spot, and showered – spewing bright beams. But, the bulb had dimmed, and passed; leaving ‘err. Alone it squandered. Alone it led. Alone, it was beautiful; alone, it was hideous. Alone, and alone, and alone.
In front and behind; there spied both a’ door. One way in, another out; separate entities, not related. One licked its chops, the other expelled - or withheld. Regardless, they were brethren; hooked to the fish, and bred in the boil. Draped in blue, they caught – locked, bolted, and molted. A fresh dew of paint, a swipe of the brush; brightly aced the hue, regardless of tether – weather. Yet under the pane, embraced change – a lift, a difference, a brown. And down would wander the drip, the drop; to halt and stop, to abrupt the eruption. For the blue would never rearrange; under the belt, the house would contain.
Even the handles had crusted and trusted the blue, the milky sky. Around the neck, it grew, and grew - riding, dividing, and multiplying. As he approached, he was dazzled, frazzled: wondering as to if, he himself, had stepped into the river. The running rapids, and was trampled – buried by the rush, the water.
Gasping for breath – reviving – but finding none; swapping about, floundering, struck about shore. Finding solid and standing - handing out, walking out. Palms slapped on sketched boards, parallel lines. Humanity, on manifestation; becoming, submitting.
Far ahead, yet closer than close – there the passage, there was all. And, how his fingers trickled; condensation upon the glass - glazing and razing. Springing out, ten to untie - ribbons unwound; noosing loosely, and turning – yearning. Flushing its body, her body; once so pale, had bloomed. But how it stung, like the bee to the rose; imposed, but gentile. Taking his honey - his wealth; sucking and sucking, till gone. Evaporated, he beat; he held rhythm, and knew not the sound.
But she did, she knew it; she knew him, or at least. So he thought. Into her, his journey swept, and kept. Interior, was absent; everything, was absent. Only she remained; far from plain, far from sane. Hand through hand, they cupped; and together, they drunk. They sipped the glass, stole the crystal; and together, ran. And, how she piled - black and long, black and short. Her face, had squeezed his own; lemon to the pitcher, corn to the cob. In fact, she was him; she was everything he was.
Spring time enveloped her, summer pitied her, and winter took her. Nature, itself, was envious; biting its roots, slitting the storm. For, what could compare to her; unadulterated, unprepared? Inhumane, innocent – freshly round, pleasantly by. It was this that drove him; made him talk, made him balk. And, into every word, she fell – attention derived, deprived, and alive. She was queen - the dealer and wheeler; baker of the loaf, yeast on the pan.
Though, without mistake, she was loomed by blue – euphoria. Perhaps, she was not strived in blood; her engines, lubricated, by purification. Her own figure would ripple, and at times, splash – moist, incredibly moist. At the lake side - there – she would salute and dilute. Hypnotized and mesmerized – villain in the mask, the flask: to bask. By daylight, she stared; not ahead, nor below. But high, higher than high; further than the clouds, farther than the shrouds. Not daunted by objects, but only specification.
She had told him, of her love: a love so slaughtered, that no butcher dare touch the aftermath; that no stomach could stand to spot the scene. How, tangled it was; how, unruly it was. Decapitated, and still holding - still moving. Torn, into numbers - to swim or march - to follow a path, to take a side. Lustfully, he pleaded, or heeded: for her to stay, for her to instill. But even in delusion, he saw her eyes; rushing with the water, the blue.
All the while, he held her; even in obsession. His obsession. But not even he could control the want of wave; the need of sea.
Released, she was free; free enough to drown. Descending, leaving. Lack of goodbye.
In bitter taste, he whelmed her; netted her, and slept for her. His own tongue spoke, heavily:
Do you not love?
I love.
Do you not see?
I see.
Why do you leave?
For my thirst.
Why do you sink?
For my thirst.
Where will you go?
Beneath.
How do you feel?
Nothing.
I
Feel
Nothing.
She was gone. It was gone. And in that place. Remained the reflecting pool; where she had swallowed, and hallowed. Where she had taken her love, and left. And left.
And there he wallowed. Wallowed. Writhing in pattern; mourning by loss; the cost, the cost - where memory pricked, and he, was the instrument; playing, softly playing. Along the coast, he hummed; whispering to her, talking to her. But the pool lapped, and laughed, and dribbled. So that his words, were nothing more but fragments. Lost, and murdered. Murdered.
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(This might be best, read aloud. Sure it's long, so don't worry about it; and don't bother with it. But, if the punctuation seems weird. It is. Why? Because it's in poem format, not so much story format. It's abstract. Reading it aloud, and following punctuation, may help)
Blah,
To begin with, this piece is horribly abstract. Understanding it, is totally up to what the reader wants. It still seems so short, and so cut up; like it was spit out. Yet, in entirety; the piece took about two to three weeks to write. Merely because the emotion for it, kept going and coming. Sort of like, constipation. If you dare even touch that. But, something of that likes. To even glimpse as to what this piece means, and why that's the title; personal areas would have to be pushed. Something about the word hopelessness is extremly appealing. It rolls off the tongue; and hopeless is obviously a feeling of having no hope. But the ness, makes it an emotion. Something at the current moment that you're going through; and it's different, it's peculiar. When reading this, that may be picked up.
Simply, the plot is not to difficult. A man, without a name, unless you give him one; is simply walking up to this house. This, is where the abstract comes in. The house, is not just a house. As explained, to him it's just a normal abode. But, to everyone else; it's useless, ugly, and not needed. It's horrific, and utterly repulsive. Yet, to him, it's just a plain and simple abode. However, the scum of the earth. Pollution. Burries it, and wears it. So, you do get a bit of influence from the outside world. As the man begins to walk toward the house; take notice of the rain. Say, that water uses the main image of blue. The rain, or water, is already pouring upon the man. Beating him, in that sense. It also leaves "welts" or scars upon the house. This is all blue. The color blue has meaning. As he goes further into the house; it's also noted that the world will not follow him.
Reality decides to stop going into the house, to not take place in there. It's not welcome. So, his journey does eventually lead him to the steps; where he is overcome by the strange amounts of blue, in the window sills and doorways. They seem to suffocate the house and keep out any use of sunshine. Or yellow. The man eventually opens the door to the house. Where, instead of going inside; he grabs the hand of a girl. So, it flows off from this point. The house, in total, is a woman; or so he sees. A beautiful, understanding woman. The story explains no time that passes; but they seem to connect. It's in this connection, that the girl explains her love for the water, and her love for the man. In total, she chooses the water. Knowing she can't live without it. She is, as explained; part of the water. So she leaves, and in that, he can not understand. So he questions her.
The voice part, is abstract.
She leaves, and that's where the hopelessness comes from. Do what you want. This piece seems so off, and an apology for that.