Milk Of Amnesia - A curiosity

I am pushed aside by my own self, onto myself. The slow and deliberate collapse of an old frame built upon muddy soil. But what hope of rise shall I have? For the depths of memory have always been muddy. How can one even dare to dream such lucid stuff as to create coherent structures of thought and consciousness out of the brittle pieces of a turbulent, yet palpable, past? It is a dance, and the rhythm incarnate is the sleepless turmoil of one's own wrinkled pillow. What a ballet insomnia makes out of our midnight hours. We are the architects of our own undoing, and we plan our destruction with diligence. We choose the alchemy of our poisons, and in measured drops we feed ourselves teaspoons of Aqua Toffana. Some give it a form, others give it a sensation, most give it a name, and all quake under masochistic pleasure of self torture; a slow demise!

I gave it a form, and soon came a sensation, and the name; it was all so natural. A body followed, a smooth skinned, gracefully articulated body, the fragrant aroma of soft hair, of flowery skin, of sweet breath, intoxicating in its breathing. Big wet eyes that stare one down and upset even the stillest of hearts and engulf all tentative, if any, of resistance.

I drank! And felt elated as this sweet death rushed inside every alcove. How the feeling of warmth became present even in the utterance of the name of the thought of such actions. The silent fall of reason, and the sinking into a muddy bank of memory.

I drank! And knew that all other reality was of no importance , that truth was suspended and hollowed of its meaning. The dissolution of the ties of rationality into a boiling sea of equivocal nightmares. The hands of a thousand tribulations were clawing at my drifting body.
I drank! And feared the waving of this ocean, the gushing tide and swirling whirlpools. How far have the currents pushed me? Was there a shore to begin with? The waters soaked me up.

An immense feeling of dread and loss soon followed. It was barking at the feet of my thoughts which were all trailing directionless into some sort of terrible void. A decomposition of everything that held in place the great obelisks of meaning and understanding. With that the rip of the very fabric of self. All the colors seem to run and gather into deep pools and foamy rivers, blast of sulfurous fumes marked the spots were the very ground failed to be. The stars whirled into primordial shapes as if trying to imitate that first chaos, the geometry of perfection mirrored into the blazing ashes of our own personal doom.

After that the silence that remains is the single witness and friend and companion. Sleep and peace and silence settle like a fine film of frost on all that was animated. After the descent into death and combustion the hushed chill of motionlessness is all that is left.

Elegy

We are falling out of a marble staircase. Out, and into a marble hall where a bright light consumes and starts its way up the immaculate walls. We are racing the deluge of the culture intoxicated lot, all quivering, formless and indistinct in its oscillations. You take its course and move towards a wall of black autumn chill, your straight back arching as each step is lain. Your perplexing shape dances like a cat in the tune of some violin. As a pause is made, your frame is jolted by contradicting thoughts and you turn round. The black varnished piano makes himself a companion to myself and my bashful conversation. You turn round exposing the fine skin of some distant spice. I take up a black curtain and you slide both hands in its grasp, your delicate fingers streaming the fabric of hard texture. My breath is kept and a wave rises as it dusks your ebony tress. A slow sound of naked air rushes out into the square. The delicate aroma of your breath. We keep ourselves alive by walking, making patterns of dissolute roundabouts. Idle flashes of your smile take hold and fears sets in and bolts up into my legs. Your face is a virgin landscape carved out from within by motions set into perennial motion. The cold slides on to the waxed cobbles and rubs the orange lamplight onto your shiny shoes. The tick and tack of your feet remind me of such things as belonging and morning. My hands take shelter and my hair stands on end. We stand, moments from each other, and I hesitate. We could have danced but I found myself gazing at the ever widening rupture. You ring round a car and slip out of sight. I depart, as an abrupt sound of tire on asphalt takes note of your departure. And as you raced through winding streets I kept my eyes on you.

A Late Lunch

An effort was made upon my part, as I focused the half image, so that it became of a scaring clarity upon my retina. I have never felt the ground quake in such a manner before...'neath my helpless feet. Long sleepless hours of numbing work rendered my rationality to a timid spark, and so this paved way for lucid chimeras to play about my fancy.

Moderation was a fools game! And indeed I played a fools gamble for as long as I could remember. With dreary hands I let slip and fall card after card, in the vane hope of a untimely resurrection. No more of that my friend, no more. Look you now on what I dare behold between two of my clasped fingers! See! and let your eyes be dumb with wonder as the Queen of Hearts evades a smile. Awe, the word that comprised and compounded the very essence of the air in that single moment. Broke the vibration I did with a scuff, I did...And as I reached for the pack my hand bled in laceration as I redly palmed the next card. The King of Spades, he frowned between trickles of treacle, thick and brewing. I lifted my head.

I ran my fingers through my hair. I tried to give the impression of some internal motion, but to no avail. The narcoleptic fumes were enough to drown any sober retaliation. The whole of my cognitive ropes and pulleys were thick with tobacco and partly digested ideas. My darling half-borns....My eyes have moved up and down her face for about a quarter of an hour. Beauty was obvious, wit and so much more was long ago confirmed. Sentences of friendly voices buzzed around the jammed hinges of interest and recollection. Some voices spoke out more clearly then others, others more kind then the rest, one more true and close to my heart than all. And as I understood what folly compacted my actions and lucid, ethereal, perigrimations I drew a conclusion.

Her hand graded my shoulder, some words were addressed to me. I could hear not. I could not remove my attention from her fine hair that raced in cavalcade, of ember hues, down some length of her back and arms. With what gentleness of path, fragile veins made trail on her neck and chin, tracing outlines of nobility like in some monumental sculpture of elevated nature. In what sublime depth of calm waters did her eyes made home...I made an indistinct gesture.

With what strength I had let in my body I managed to galvanize the whole of it into an erect posture. My gaze spun wildly. And falling upon her, I saw that she was expecting an answer.
"Cigarette?" asked I, as I made for the door...