left out to dry drenched, salty periods of serpent sleep clashes of the heroic, titanic, mammoth gifts of the muses labors of the damned siren song false promise twist of gold wiry curls to wrap and cut and prick waiting to be perfect combed and corded woven a blanket searing, white-hot and glorious
rather have a gray sweatshirt warm from the dryer two frayed holes and a chewed aglet
both wanting something neither brave enough to try
never far apart always distanced
leaving words unspoken
but
staying together
Spoiler
Mamihlapinatapai: Yaghan word meaning "a look shared by two people, each wishing that the other would initiate something that they both desire but which neither wants to begin."
Not happy with this at. all. Will probably revise later or something. This concept is so beautifully frustrating, I want to do it justice.
It takes two to tango. Only two. Company versus a crowd. Crowds are noisy and pushy and smelly. A company is a well-oiled machine, producing... products. Tricycles are for babies. Third wheel. Taking away the intimacy of balance. No effort. No consideration. Just plow over everything. Mis-stepping to the music. Tripping on extra feet, bruising toes and feelings. Better just to be two
I want to spit and rage and fling brilliance about in a froth. Trampling clods of clotted colloquialism and ushering in the harbringers of onopatopoeia and the King's English. Cracking open slips of yolk and watching then run between your fingers and across the notches of your brain. Hash and rehash, whipping the dead horse into a souffle, drizzled in the remains of canon.
He came like a silent thunderclap. He took her hand and he led her into the sky. She stumbled on the wrinkles of the moon but he caught her in its cradle and made her a blanket of stardust.
To be or not to be that is the question no one answers. Taken out of context. A line pulled from a silk hat, fluffy and appealing and hung up on the carrot dangling from the lever. Pull it. Slot machine of the damned. Do you feel lucky, punk? Skating the edges of Styx, hand in hand with a dead philosophy. Artificial consciousness, programmed for the past, losing relevance. Hey, listen! Domo arigato, Mister Roboto. I'll be back. But you won't. I'll wipe the slate clean. A fresh storm of pixels to gnaw away the serpent's coils and let the turtle run. Don't stop me now. Call me Ishmael.
she pinched notes from the air like plucking flower petals or chicken feathers she swallowed them pushing them between her teeth and tongue and down her throat until she gagged then the world away he retched and the music flowed out
