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(Nothing's nothing at all)
(It comes in waves. Tonight it comes worse. & this is how it comes out)
 
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Pink sky, cold air, a stranger approaching, ignored, but the internal rhythm is rising in volume, pluckings of a piano echo from within this emptying cranium, eyes feeling widened with clarity, like the pink is pinker, & now the stranger says "Hey, what's goin' on?" ... "Nothin'." There's a stare off, their hair is gray, their skin no longer fair, somewhere past the skin, the skull, the membranes, there's an imprint of before, before color became gray, fairer times, before their eyes went hard & stopped seeing from either vantage. Light's flip, feet are in motion, they're left behind, their nodding head, their panning view, they're onwards elsewhere, but now they know: Nothing's going on
 
Pink sky, cold air, a stranger approaching, ignored, but the internal rhythm is rising in volume, pluckings of a piano echo from within this emptying cranium, eyes feeling widened with clarity, like the pink is pinker, & now the stranger says "Hey, what's goin' on?" ... "Nothin'." There's a stare off, their hair is gray, their skin no longer fair, somewhere past the skin, the skull, the membranes, there's an imprint of before, before color became gray, fairer times, before their eyes went hard & stopped seeing from either vantage. Light's flip, feet are in motion, they're left behind, their nodding head, their panning view, they're onwards elsewhere, but now they know: Nothing's going on
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  +
Blood trail goes back, to point of annihilation, impact sparked, without ignition, flames drained from this cold corpse, everything inside it dissolved, some fossil imprint left behind. Need to go back, find apex, find root, find event horizon, find found, find fixed point. This too shall pass. It has passed. Point of no return. Strike anchor, whip back, flicker fade, dithering out
  +
  +
These moments come without warning. Without prediction. Something inconsequential like a binding breaking away from the flat line along the shelf, plucked, flicked, a random passage: ''The glory of the past is riot, profusion, a chaos of flowers.'' & now the hook is set, the pages flip back to the beginning, until at last the passage is returned to, now with context. But no more beautiful days, points in time to take pause, flip back, reread anew. All ends the same
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  +
Flip back, read a line, & stop. Permutate: read a line, stop, flip back
   
 
[[Category:User/Serprex]][[Category:Long Stories]]
 
[[Category:User/Serprex]][[Category:Long Stories]]

Latest revision as of 00:55, 24 January 2018

User:Serprex 01:42, November 27, 2017 (UTC)

Blood for the slaughter, cut red handed. Running on empty, no oxygen, only this viscous death blood, leaking out the face, the hands, always back to the hands, these hands

These hands don't hold anymore. Letting go, adrift, found sunk, exploring post mortem, post life, anew, adieu

Dawn at six. Pink sky, clouds lit, smoke cloud, toxic rain, washing away everything, only sins remain

Porch looks down. Passes by the wayside. Weight on a limb; going out on. Porch's days only begun. Today's some old day, been had before, drained to dry. Perishable time

Gone bad. Where'd it go? Falls back into reverie. To before this day. Snuck a smile, was it only a reflex? It echoes through time. When was it? That first time, thinking back, it was only perceived by reference, looking up from a book, smiled at to the back of the head. Bullet wound's still leaking. That tingling sensation. They come out in waves, it comes in waves, these days, all interfering

Have to time it right. Cancel them out. Move onwards. How many times has this introduction been made? Every new person is déjà vu. Someone older, more worn, out & yet here they are, a new moment, to be filed away, duplicated, revised by everyone else

But it's still there, the carbon copy, back then when. The vultures in the tree, their looming presence, the unrepeatable moment unobserved as it's taken down for later review, where it'll be pretended that it was experienced, but it wasn't, only written down & passed around like a snuff film or some afternoon thrill sight on the job

These details, their fidelity, crisp & rhythmically timed, the pace of the heart at that point, the way it varied by the day, these pieces are to be revisited, other observers discarded these points, but losing those points, it becomes pointless, some blob with new details applied in order to keep the story straight

Private keys flying by a terminal screen. Never unseen. Shifting fingers passing on their code. Sequences constructed to keep the time straight. Monotonic clock stamping out seek points. Where does one moment end & begin? A second later

Dreams are just these records getting mixed up. Imagining how it'd've panned out if some key pieces had been put elsewhere. If the camera had panned over to information then there now lost. Lost in reverie

But now Porch is here, taking this step, the stranger's past, stranger things have passed, when the first word was said, all the lies, these histories are a series of amendments annotating wrong, wrong wrong. Perceptions wrong. Illusions cast from shadows. Glitches in understanding

Just make the next step. The stranger had a brown coat, sun tanned, curls, buckled boots, sidebag, glasses..

Glasses on the table. Hexagons. Round top. Textured glass. Tinted green. Refracts on the windowsill. Memory clear, but it happens, against will. This is determinism. The past is deterministic. The present will soon be the past; deterministic

& this second step, it soon will be the present. Will the sole's slight shifting as the weight pushes it against the cement be perceived? Put on record for all time? Will the cigarette butts be immortalized? Their deflated former selves, once ripe to deflate the lungs of their consumers

Time goes on, leaving Porch behind. Or maybe everyone goes on, leaving time behind, besides Porch, still here, this moment, it hasn't evaporated, left to be forgotten, to be repeated unknowingly

But time did go on, all that has passed, these archives now can be reflected on with footnotes made referencing the future. That's the difference between memory & experience: in the former one relives it knowing what happens next. Drained of all surprise. Vital to remember the uncertainty, the misconceptions, the faux pas

They all lead to laying by this trickling stream, blood flowing away, each painful movement echoing itself into the perception of the next. Foliage masking moonlight. Stream gurgles, as if it were new life, idly flowing on away from this deathful

Next step being taken. One step follows the other. Eventually Porch'll reach the convenience store. See if any of the chips are appetizing

The bag crinkles, & then air pressure has the indent swirling around, an inverse bubble. Catch up to this moment, the anticipation, then the anticipation had to be lived through, it had to pass, even if Porch wanted the moment to go on, to only have to come upon the moment where the bag pops, emptying the trapped air. Now, in reflection, reliving this anticipation is optional

A sharp pain pierces the memory. Interrupts before it can relive the sweet vinegar taste. Acid on the tongue, melting away the surrounding environment, eyes shutting as the experience focuses in on the fake tomato taste, having to decide whether to let the chip melt or crack

Eyes are open. Looking at bloody hands. When was this? Maybe now. It's becomes hard, the linear basis of past memories, mixing with present memories. Everyone bleeds the same, warmth seeping away, this does not change with time

Blood's in my head, blood's on the floor

All I've got is this bad blood to give

Now there's only handfuls of blood

Flood my body deathful, spiteful

Scorpion whiplash, sucking me dry

Scorpions've got my mortality in a vice

Don't cry for this poor sod out of luck

Porch's mind echoes on in chorus. Never ending as it raises up the line, be it hiding in a closet, running down a moonlit path, or laying here by this flowing stream. Some cheap imitation Styx

Two feet off the floor, breathing's getting heavier, heart is starting to race, trying to rush oxygen it doesn't have, the breathing begins to gasp & moan, eyes feeling heavy, hands grasping aimlessly, it could be anything. Anticipation's rising in excitement. Just needed a little kick

No ghosts in these crystal clear etchings. Alive in stasis. Sharp surfaces reflecting future onto present, or is that passed, it's all perfect, regular structure, nothing to change when falling back to that time, each action grows from the last, striking back onto that time vibrates with a perfect tone, each moment's stuck on the same frequency, pitch the sail to traverse these clear waters

No dark depths sheathing sharks, bleed freely, melting into the underbrush, only place to hide is behind reflections

So Porch could see this was going to be fine. Telling present from past, it didn't really matter, just a matter of perspective. The sun would rise again, warmth would bring breath more easily, put things into perspective, it's not so bad. Some croaking moan would catch the attention of a stranger wearing black jacket wearing blue tipped lapel. Blue hints all down the legs, really brings out the colors of their veins. There there

How long have you been here? / Always / Are you feeling okay? / I can't feel my legs / Can you move your toes? / I can't feel my legs / Everything's going to be alright / It's cold down here / How'd you end up down here? / I'm sinking back / What are you thinking about? / Sinking / About?

Into the depths, a blinding light, "What do you see?"

It's a narrow road, not so much because of it's actual proportion, but because of the trees along the street, closing in, hiding away the powerlines, the drawstrings of this period, packing everyone together, no matter how far. It's that odd time of season where leaves are collecting in the streets as debris, yet there's still so many on the trees. Cars are parked along the street, making it seem more narrow, everything's being tightened together, an elder child's standing by, this moment is suspended, suspended by the waiting. Most moment flicker by, no time for exposure to burn into the mind, a keepsake, a notch in the timeline. Reaching for something to pass the time, to move on to the next moment, "Don't step on a crack," it'd be easy enough to walk carefully, but instead it becomes a matter of leaping, of risking failure, seeking distraction, but everything is kept aware, risk does not gather attention from the faux wood paneling on the long nosed vehicle across the street. Stretched out along this narrow road

Crack. Enter asymmetry. Off kilter, into helter skelter, lies lie there, escape hatches from these lines of thought, escaping through the cracks, need to make it back, before the bus arrives, chewing on the seat, looking out the window, reading signs aloud, window obscured by signage. Need to get off this bus, before the moment comes around, where the tupperware container is thrown over the fence, the parabolic ascent, descent, setting the accent of this experience

It was easier to come out of the body when it was so small, the escape came by nature, identity was still tapped into the surrounding environment, these objects, holding their place, objective memory, tapped into the underground wires, feeling the world flow, streaming in & out, this body only a sieve

Now they're lifting Porch up, rising to the occasion, didn't get a number, some identifier, if only Porch was still tapped in, then like tendrils they'd be entangled, never lost. But it's too late, born into an entity which feeds off the land, now there is only this blood feeding the land, trickling away, until this body will shrink & Porch'll once again be out of the body, into the nether

Really liked that black jacket

But there's no time for that. Now Porch is confined, bedridden, doped. They won't allow for escape. Some kind of investigation, wanting to get the story straight

Straight dope. But eyes shut, light glaring on through the eyelids, trying to occlude the perception. There's no need to cooperate. Soon enough these soft sheets will be cast off, the buildings will crumble, ashes of rust. Porch sees through it all: this bed is a metal cage, sheets thrown over, but it's all clear, no x-ray eyes necessary. People lying bored, tired, adrift. All being washed down the drain, feed the fish to feed the ducks to feed the world, feeding the future. Tape feed. That's all this is. Porch can hear the ringing whine overlaying of a cassette recording, focusing in on it, it was quiet first, but now it's volume has drowned out everything, despite not having raised in volume, only it's share of awareness

The cassette pauses. A face is hidden behind a mask, a mask disguised as being for sanitary purposes, but it's only there to hide the truth, to hide the identity behind it from being pierced into, even the eyes peering out from behind it, through the crack, are hiding behind a pair of square glasses, lightly rimmed

How did you become injured? / I was always injured / But your latest injury: was it the result of a preexisting condition? / There is no preexistence / Were you on any drugs? / I am now / Please try to answer my questions clearly. You have nothing to fear / Many find nothingness a fearful thing / Do I make you uncomfortable? Would you like to talk later? / Fake comfort, fake talk, fake later. Not now, not later, not... / You seem tired, get some rest / ...rest assured, tired of resting. You seem some, not whole

& out. Four in the morning, snow swept, entrance sided with twiggy trees. Bolt past them, through knee high bushes, running up that hill, feet marching to keep from slipping, through the foliage, past apex, rushing down, picking up feet to stop friction from tripping, only to trip as the hill ends with a short wall. Feet landed, but inertia keeps the body moving forward, rolling along the pavement

Looking back, what had spurred that action? Why start off from the walkway? Spontaneous action produces memories missing pieces, there's nothing to be remembered, only some break from the boredom, the elation of being outside, & pain in the gut from taking that fall, new blood from sliding against the salted pavement, shoulder is stiff, body is limping, muscles shaken, nerves refusing to execute their commands, some form of rebellion

These are the moments that keep one in the present. That keep one coming back to the past for more. Chuckling out of breath

Vomiting out of breath. Nausea comes in waves. Closed eyes only feel worse, falling inside, not having a grip on reality assuring groundedness. Surroundings become vapid as stomach clamps and out hurls more fluids. Empty body empty mind. Leaning against the wall, seeking rest, thinking: another?

17. Another? Hit me. & they did

Laying in the back, trying not to bleed on the faux leather, risk breathing life out of this body & into the existence of the back seat of a car, no mouth to groan out this pained existence, no eyes to see this final fate. But the blood keeps flowing, drops like breadcrumbs, back to that bloody origin, all the other fluids cleaned away, only some left inside, but the bleeding never stops. Might as well be some inanimate object in the back, conversation passing along as if it were so: Where do we drop 'em off? / Jo's place no good, Marcy? / Out of town / Doesn't mean their place is, don't have some spare key under the mat? / Kids are all off on their own now / Hell.. & here we are having to babysit Porch, the fool / Only getting worse, effects of entropy rotting in on that clockwork mind back there

Porch tries to raise some protest, give some guiding direction to how this is going to all work out in everyone's favor, but only some groan is raised, an assertion of a conscious entity gripping onto its identity

Why if you're making a mess of my back back there, check on 'em, is it a mess? / Yeah / Not taking 'em back to our place, in a state like that, getting too old for this shit. Porch, I don't owe you shit / Calm down-- / I'm calm, do I seem not calm? You want to see not calm? Tell me to calm down one more time, go ahead

The voice had been becoming louder, despite Porch feeling more distant, falling by the wayside. But a silence had flowed into the vehicle, flowing through the light night traffic

& then stopped. The sound of passing air stopped. The motion, the bumbling, the doppler effect of a passing vehicle. Only the bloodflow went on

Drop 'em out here, get someone else to check up in the morning / You sure? / Porch'll be fine; it's a flesh wound / Porch'll freeze / Nah, morning'll be around in a couple hours, it's been a long night. I'm through with this / For fucks sake

Meagre protest. Porch slumped out on their own volition when the door opened. Walking by the driver's door, thinking to walk on, the door opened up beside & knocked Porch off balance, tumbling down the hill beside the bridge, hearing the sound of the vehicle gunning off

Clouds adrift, some eternal lava lamp, on a global scale. These instances contribute little entropy to its process. Only aggregate dissipation, waste product of these interactions, discarded. Days continue, like this old day. One step after the other. Before the next. Glancing into street store windows, faint reflection, saint redemption, lights passing by, white shining between streaks of color, black red red black blue black black black green. Dullened by glass, image mostly passing through

This is the full experience, every experience framed in long exposure, background brought into focus, no delineation of extraordinary from ordinary. No revisions to clarify intention, cast hero from villain, spread out the wrinkles. This is only that

Porch is standing in line, not looking up at the menus listed above. Look once, stare forever. "Oh, Lai got stuck in the mud, took a good fifteen minutes for someone to stop & get 'em out." Glimpses pass the shutter, fragments of a wisp. Lines from a line. "If Reis ain't givin' me any shifts, I'll tell, I know what you're doing, you know." The line steps forward. Shifting aside the customer breaks out. "I was like 'excuse me, I'm right here,' people like that just really bug me. It's like they think everybody owes them." Owe six twenty, thirty in change. Double nickle, double dime

"How do you want your cream cheese?"

Pink sky, cold air, a stranger approaching, ignored, but the internal rhythm is rising in volume, pluckings of a piano echo from within this emptying cranium, eyes feeling widened with clarity, like the pink is pinker, & now the stranger says "Hey, what's goin' on?" ... "Nothin'." There's a stare off, their hair is gray, their skin no longer fair, somewhere past the skin, the skull, the membranes, there's an imprint of before, before color became gray, fairer times, before their eyes went hard & stopped seeing from either vantage. Light's flip, feet are in motion, they're left behind, their nodding head, their panning view, they're onwards elsewhere, but now they know: Nothing's going on

Blood trail goes back, to point of annihilation, impact sparked, without ignition, flames drained from this cold corpse, everything inside it dissolved, some fossil imprint left behind. Need to go back, find apex, find root, find event horizon, find found, find fixed point. This too shall pass. It has passed. Point of no return. Strike anchor, whip back, flicker fade, dithering out

These moments come without warning. Without prediction. Something inconsequential like a binding breaking away from the flat line along the shelf, plucked, flicked, a random passage: The glory of the past is riot, profusion, a chaos of flowers. & now the hook is set, the pages flip back to the beginning, until at last the passage is returned to, now with context. But no more beautiful days, points in time to take pause, flip back, reread anew. All ends the same

Flip back, read a line, & stop. Permutate: read a line, stop, flip back