Gropes in a dirty Sun image

René Adams
1,771 words

Burnt pokes. Some pikes. Lets just pour dirty fizzy water on it, and see what the hell happens uh?

                                                                                Where we come to choose                                                                                 our name
                                                                                
                                                                                freely we                                                                                 go

                                                                                favourite birds of                                                                                 dance

                                                                                together beyond night
                                                                                where only flight

                                                                                is left.

I BREAK MY KNUCKLES IN BED. Feels good. Each one goes bang bang bang.

Can’t reach my whole body.

The one I get from my ankles kicks arse, yo9u just pull that metatarsal back – CRACK.

People must think I’m crazy. But I crack my bones throughout the night too. Love it. Only knuckle and joint crackers will get it. What a damn crappy way to begin it all! But hey: just a bone cracking, just a punch inside time. Yup and only bone crackers get that!

I break my wedding finger on my head, snap it, just near the base of my skull.

Such peculiarities are what makes life, Kroden thought to himself.

Stretching where men are unrestrained. Instead, loving the ready ray of blood, life, unrepentant. Against night, day, and all between, except, if there was just a smashing amphitheater, where we could all just grow without smashing each other’s life, which there is not, dear dancer, ha! Just the hidden cup under the sink. Leaking, some dagger comes up.

Up through silk.

All roots scream, all cocktails in the best parts of each city, scream, night is night, the manic lights of cars without headlights tear into future snakes of lights. Drastic lights of a twisted warren on fire.

KRODEN pulled the grey tablet away from the hill, as if gums were a dream, and this was a tooth. He scratched his chin with it, and thought about shaving. Holding his own tooth in his hand, and gurgling like a monk-heavy on fire, ready to preach.

The titanium hump, the baseless drum, where he’d plucked the night foreclosing, into a ready rhythm of awful grace. Trying to slap time away by slapping his bedside table, aye.

Past the debentures of worldly trading, where underneath we scream as huma – atine {huma – att – tine! the sound after too many shots} fruits and kings, but the stars of blackness a top, where without us, the light has no Pluto, and the sun has no gratuity for shadow to give.

And on his bedside table, spread with dull red lights at the base, Kroden’s alarm clock said such things.

Co-ordinating his balls on the window.

Garan, and Tula! Love swells with humour, all else is death.

Being tame was something that he found the same as killing.

As did all of the colonial men that couldn’t find work in the inner cities.

Although, there was such treasure in the sallow booming lights of the departing cities where those like Kroden remained. Anywhere else~ and you wouldn’t have the swearing owls outside, tapping on your window as if born a woodpecker, on the floating shoulder of a local politician.

Soulless Soufflés, bodyless men floating, words in a fake faux storm, no bone, nothing that we swallow.

War upon the chorus of these types that have such little hope in the truth of sorrow, of vitality, re-changing, we their words are but dead grass, alight with cinders, that we know, and grip, so much easier.

1. Kroden woke up. Still half scratching his chin with the tablet, as the gory have-a-go lights of steam outside, polluted his room. No Maybe sound.

2. Can’t be time for work yet, and I love- shit my room’s on fire, hell is heaven without walls.

The politician kept on knocking. One of Kroden’s eyes opened.

He felt all of the gods in a lock-knife he kept on the floor, within the dust, with the broken stim-amps, with the old analogue fakes of I Pagliacci that took last month’s pay check, where his bed hovered just above. For no reason. He thought: Maybe no work today, maybe no questions, just roll off my bed, unflick that knife, and send it through the damn window, so it strikes in the middle of his brow, and we finally see eye to eye.

“A great good morning to you comrad Kroden! Shall we all dance today away from our sorrows into the sun of Markeaun Jnr, your local man, against keeping you down! Against the man up top, and for you! For you! Can I have your vote today comrad? Can I-” The heavily sweating man said hovering outside of Kroden’s window.

Kroden rolled off the side of his bed and did as his dream said – and all it took was a few moments of neverlasting life: – he hit the floor in a pile, and tried to make it look graceful, he slammed his full body into the dust, half seeing with one iota a cockroach-hornet hybrid waltz over his bust bury vinyl, laughing and dribbling, half snapping the knife open and chucking it at the window, where it reverberated back against the thick molasses shadow, and bounced back across his apartment towards him.

“Thank-you for your time dear comrad! I have left a message on your retna display, read it later! When you need a friend in the storm of toda-”

“-Oh come here ahhh!” Kroden growled, as the buzzing sound of the canvasser flew away from his window and onto the next room. He counted his dreams like money. Gripping onto the small grey tablet that held them with one hand, and cursing that they didn’t. He rolled onto his back. And breathed in the bad air of his apartment like it was flowers on fire, since, aye.”

I should have multiplied into a straight man. One of those people my old girl liked, the one that heals broken paint in the ceiling with more paint, or a new place, and undergoes surgery from the outside in, accepting that life is a null pleasure smile, he said aloud, or thought, or danced, or designed.

But there was one thing that always lit Kroden’s skin. It wasn’t the street curling against the sooty ash of faces and suits below, where he’d soon have to walk himself.

Or the stim-dens full of Exactica junkies, hooked on adrenalised mimics of shadows dying, dancing under their noses as their eyes shut. The main drug of Coben:60. A hallucinogen that speeds up the entirety of your memories – and who could take that? And who could turn it down? – then lets rip time out for a minute.

Cascading the angles where you felt emotion. And changing the polorising moments the same way Jesus does when he knocks over a beer, and it rains, and he catches the bottle.

Kroden rolled onto his front, and busted out a few hundred push-ups. It was the only thing that kept him away from the dens. There were several things you could do in Coben:60~

Work-out. Eat. Love. Work. Or get high, and die soon.

He took a break and ignored the time as it created itself elsewhere.

Standing up.
Sweating.
Wondering where he was inside a room that still smelt like an armpit, male and female animals walking back from darkness, backwards, into time, hand in hand. I miss you on the road.

Our road is fire.

I am it.

Punk clouds germinating outside the walls and in. Kroden ate yesturday’s Singapore noodles staring out of the wi8dow. The hap-dozen wake of eternal traffic drifted by less than a nuzzle away from his chomping li[ps and teeth. Burps. Down from the several sunz he realised that he’d be late if he diidn’t quit5 writing howo is dreams were before. More tap taps came from thr swearing owls outside, ot those he called as lazuli when his mind was togther, the streaming fols!

Violence roared into his gut.

He felt fed and ready enough for another day of it all.

Another canvaseeing organelle faux tap tapped on his window, he looked back dressing, and showed the dead orchid there would be no more votes for death today, or, maybe give a fella privacy, in a grunting heavy chuckle! – And even the aoenless orange sun of puke clouds above the city had cheer today, so, Kroden relaxed.

Got dressed in silence, and made that bad laughing sound at the base of his neck, at what, at what.

But belch as you do in liesure, belch at my table, belch as you feel the cosmos loosen, belch as you feel the darklight shatter into dance – we all save a little bit for Doomsday, or the style to knock Benvolio out with a sharp straight left, nevermind the opus! – The marching drums have shook the soil to nil, where only the core of our lungs still speak, each of my marriages bare another life, caricatures of a lily glowing when I sleep, the mariachi shine of a dead man’s maine, is never forgot in the river of words, the kiss that I place inside a tattoo on your neck is the same as my soul.

Although altogether, the city is insane, or at least the one that slings my door shut.

Damn.

Keys inside, oh well.

Good luck to my keys.

Kroden walked head down the bleaching corridor, knowing that the rays he was recieving were cancerous from the east, and if he just turned, for just for a moment, he’d receive the full 42°C on his face.

So better to be last in the street heavy dance, me lassy once said, aye and aye, full of opportunity, with only last night’s work in fist.

Only full
animals dance
where fright
scares others
away

Somewhere down the heavy stone stairs of Kroder’s block, a crow flies near his teeth.

And he rushes back from himself exchanging. The root of his anger within the amber glow of that bluster bird gone.

Wings which create obsidian cloaks, feathers, dusk, black, ripe enclosure for Daedulus to bathe in morning’s moon, shall only the moving know, if in muscle and bone, the percussion of mind, is torn into human storm.

It was as any good Wednesday would be, both crimson and azure, where the rib-cage proves beyond all doubt, that as a man races to work, the shuffle must make way!

Hitting a corner of grass with one heel, then thumping the world with the next, Kroden ran for no reason. He covered his mouth as he gathered momentum, already gained, already autumn, with a rough cloth, speeding and jumping over people. It was lonesome to be a Remembricant, yet, “As our limbs may, as our shadows remain”, he sang.

It was near pay-day.

He sniffed around once settled on the roof-top of a café. Alone from the hunting beats of the dead city. He asked himself if he was felidae in the departing city. He asked himself if he was canine or other, or shadowless unclean , passing cars over-top, dropped out by blue rhythms, but then the beat came back for today, dream enclosure faux.

Kroden.

And as all shadows do, deciding to work better than poetry does, and broking all his limbs walking forwards. Each limb a stub a forgotten stub of a mind on each paw.

He stood up and ran towards the edge of the café meeting a gust over the pain of gale opening his back wings and lung wings. It was a damned day to be a courier, but at least, there was something to bare, which was not human, and affable.

And the message was clear, that, there is no story, unless the theatre is bread from: blood, carrion, disgrace- SHATTER lie, say, that our tongues are not poems. We are the populace in flight which have no fealty ever!

That night we all danced like hogs, but realised that the pigs were locked out and climbing in through the windows, typing geese honking biting Orwel dogs arses cats fucking hen stag eyes munching caterpillar song bayonet Dutch rifles out now! The vixens said playing in the fields and the moors with their mates since their was no fire apart from the breath of nature in the streets of blood bucking tribune to the skin flakes. Where most hearts forget not flesh, there is no language of love.

Kroden!
Kroden!
Kroden!

“You must awake now. Your dream is complete. Be thankful that you are paid for these. Be thankful.

Your dream is recorded.
Your dream is recorded.

Bring to dream bank A:639.

All dreams must be successfully transponded before oh oh eight, several niner.

Do not become your own dream Remembricant #3869.55”.

The message repeated.

****

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