Water gurgles with a splashing scoosh. Scoosh is not a word, I know, I know. Rap on the knuckles, mister, wear the dunce hat now. Laugh and smile. Lord in heaven how my cheeks hurt from smiling. The water gurgles still, scoosh, scoosh, it sings, a flush of droplets raining down to die on porcelain.
Can water die? They say it can’t. Who they are, I never know, but they seem to say everything that is worth saying. Then again, what is worth when there’s no one listening? Is someone listening? One never knows when the water is running, the noise drowns sound. Perhaps not. It crackles and falls into pieces, small, deliberate pieces that soak and choke along the ground until they're ripped back up into the clouds. Clouds… I wonder about clouds. How they change and grumble way up high. And when it rains! How those clouds swell and pout until their tears touch earth. Such a colour, those clouds. As if God has beaten them for lingering too long. Lord God has no temper, but sense. Those clouds lie dormant and soulless, flitting and flirting along the blue-boy skies. He takes them in hand. He takes us all in hand.
I think a pipe is broken. The water sprays a spyssh, dotting the ground, flooding the ground, pounding the ground. Pound, pound, pound. How does the ground feel to be broken so? Not that it breaks. The ground never breaks. Maybe gives a little, wears away in the onslaught. But never breaks. People break. They're nothing like the ground. Oh, they give a little; let their soft flesh bruise like the clouds God deforms, let the red marks of fingertips waste away their smooth colours. But they take little more to break.
It's never clean. The ground. Or the break.
The breaks seethe with mess - a fornication of disease. And the ground writhes with disgust at the feet that slipper it. Snap, snap, crack. Breaks are beautiful things. Like the curve of porcelain on the skin of the palm, kissing white. Kissing knight. If you kissed the Queen on the chess board, would she yawn her great lips and touch her scepter to your tongue? No, no, for she is the Queen and the Queen does not touch.
Touch me, touch her. Touch him, touch them. Can you touch?
Touch.
Say it too many times and it looks wrong. Touchtouchtouchtouch. They never touch. While white plays black, the Queen is never tired, and the water splashes on.
But it never does touch.
(This is meant to be a stream-of-consciousness piece, using a stimulus image. Kylan's contests rawk)
