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The Bond

Coruscating thoughts betray thy primal instinct.

 

To the witness, the clouds commence, skewing that which has been long since known of man.

 

It is here, where the heart begins its activation.  An internal clock of inborn premise commences, stirring forth the Grimoire incoherent.  In counting down and spiraling through, a leavening of complacency spires to, flecking the stars with gold and sparkling hues.

In a momentary lapse of permutation, reflective as it is refractive, adjunct to the enemy it stows.  As is the composure under compromise, baseline’s stilt, rearranging polarity. Such damask blends breed patterns unrehearsed.

 

Pulsation bleats awhile rapt in throbbing undulation. Emulously, in duress, the synapse skitters to inert measure; a weight felt reactively within the fading doe.

 

Struggling, she battles each interval coursing in the plague. Struggling, to remain focused, to ignore the loosened clasp. Struggling, to deafen the fleeting harmonics born this eve. Struggling, to adhere to innate notions, to see through, both the vision and the virtue, she’d painted in her dreams.

 

Fledging forth amongst the besmirched quaking born from such dystopian avails, one would not think ill for fading soon to the aberrant qualms that darkness drew.

 

Despite tremors, of consequence, nature is discovered; where traits, of perseverance, dare not yet escape into death’s ever-alluring, outstretched arms.

 

And, in as such, violent resolutions forego their anticipatory applause.  Instead, baffled as they should be, said constrictions grow intrigued by the tarried rebuking from this beast.

 

The doe, now pale like pallor’s bride, rejects thy outcome, denouncing the agonies your restrictions make.

 

She adheres instead, to the coursework determination phrased within; blocking all currencies of pain and by staring deep into her pleasure’s swoon. And it is within this now, which sensations become avowed, thusly taking her through, to that time, in which she elsewise would’ve claimed.

 

Amongst each meandering pause another echo would emerge.  Upon a bed crafted in cruel reality, in a setting coated by seeds of unnatural parlance, maternal impulse still chose to surge. Instructions whispered she to stay. Whence came the word, perhaps the ethos spake, perchance the wind itself? Though none knew such a cure, enough was spoke to stir the beast e’er still. Mystery kept wake her eyes, to stare, beyond the pain and through the sadness it would purge. Mystery kept full her lungs, to breathe, inhaling another tinge of life.  Though fleeting still, mystery kept alive both instinct and hope, enough for her to feel what it was she knew as truth. Mystery kept her silent, still, to marvel upon the art she gave and to lay eyes upon that which she would invite to set her free.

 

Yet, when time came to, she looked away.  Many stood agape, to believe she chose to test the temperament of fate. If not for the architect with womb, never would this truth be sate. For the salt cast stream, which was all the story needed a mother to see and know.  Such action was not bred in denial but rather bled from sacrifice.

 

As the doe would have relished taking her leave with such a sight, it was out of fear she chose no such reprieve. As much as her lids did beg for this delight, she could not bear to know her expiration would be her artistry’s initial sight.

 

Such strength uncommon, born of a love noticeably unseen in such a time, to sacrifice the love she bleeds, so her blood can bear not the timeless burden of such bloodied sorrow.

 

Seasons would shift and time did pass, leaving us our return to this unfamiliar familiarity, a present path connected with the seeds of life’s past.

 

A hunter, it is told, often discovered a child scampering through his favorite tract of lawn. Upon this day and for each one that does still pass, he would stand still to watch, as this child aged upon his familiar stretch of path.  Here then he sees, each time he does, the child is cuddled close, amongst a warped wood of unnaturally yet naturally shaded hue.  And strangely enough, seasonably without expectation, such a man, of his line, should choose ebb back such a gifted sight.  Never did his quiver part from the spine, effectively deboning sycophantic notions of archetype.

 

And as the well worn boots march away each time, a child scurries along through brush and wood, ever looking back, leaving indication it would return again, a truth this hunter proudly knew as true.

 

And what is to be said of a predator that sympathizes with his prey?  Perhaps all that can be said, must lead us through, past the points of typical convention, to the precipice of an unlikely connection, a convection, that forever onward, only two would truly know.

 

Or quite possibly, as I like to think it through, perhaps the myths are true.  To which, so the songs bestows, that despite what we know of as truth, a doe still protects her own, even after her days were eternally through. The tale then retells, that through a promise made, between a sickly doe and a hunter who fared not well in hunting, that bonds be built, between man and nature and nature with man, creating an ouroboros between adult and child.

Implications of And…and the Salt strewn across ragged by-ways

On a nervous edge of highway
my innocence flagellated some
Digressing from the positive
into mutated-bloody fragments
of encased blood-caked filth-
sewn scum

In the eyes of the passers-by
I saw that detestable grin, so
apparently steadfast in their orbs,
I needn’t question which frame
I was surely in

At the meridian there stood a
wavering entry-point, a place
I must scamper before permanency
claims my slate

Yet, I felt right there some
armed ghost nagging at me tight,
such strength from an apparition,
no wonder those to see such a sight,
never sleep well on each coming
night

I pray a chalice would fall from
cloud-lined eaves, dousing my
fragile flesh with waves of peace,
but blood would be the only
liquidity to show it’s face on
this unlucky tract of green

And…always…

Is it not so true, when such a
simple word appears, we stop our
guard, let emotions loosen in
full gears of acceptance, turning,
gnashing to premature halting of
the senses?

Is it also not true, or perhaps
more evident in the mental composition
of many prisoners of this dualistic
realm…that and, encourages us to wander
more, implication a rush of words or phrase,
perhaps string of either, connected or abstract,
when and, may simply be the end of such a
deceptive dance?

It was the finality here I must confess, two sentences
before I bid adieu…I felt the slender side slipping
quick into the chasms of that un-godly shifting crypt…It would
be not much longer, before any semblance of the man I once
knew myself to be, the boy who never heard of monsters or
the things such creatures could undoubtedly compose, and, there I
go leading you on once longer, but the figure within me, shaded and
sculpted with incessant charms, I will be contained, without a
say, unless of course you see me stranded within my eye, but people
just don’t believe in things like this, so they’ll in every case
think nothing of it, and I will be forced to watch the creature
sprawl his appetite as many times the tastes tempt his recreation.

Silver stake connected to metal sign. STOP.

Enough of the beast was present, enabling a power beyond mortal
capacity. To which, uproot the indicator of traffic law from it’s
concrete bed, and into the lost flesh, to which I speak to you all
now.

Just in the knick of time, for the beast was born a mere moment
after vivisection and…

M.L.E

For most, it was afternoon. For me, break of dawn.
Still eradicating what’s left of last nights smog,
I meandered back and forth, bedroom to kitchen,
kitchen to couch, performing various actions within
each reference frame. Television, on to the news,
Coffee pot, on and waiting to brew, Drapes open,partially,
allowing in a single stream, dividing the darkness at it’s
central seam.

After minutes which felt like seconds that felt like hours,
I stirred the peaches deep within the creamed wheat. Nothing
shocking, as this is how each day begins, how it has for sometime now..

As the last bit of cereal slid past tongue, down throat,
I noticed a couple oats still sticking
to the sides of this little yellow/green turtle
shaped bowl. Don’t ask me why, I’ve had it for ever, and
the lack of a woman’s touch, perhaps I have no reason not to,
and besides, it’s kind of cute, in a flashback sort of way..

but back to the oats, stuck to the bowl and after several attempts
I gave up, they would not let go and so, into the sink the lot would
go, to suffer the same fate they always do, a warm rain falling upon
to which I walk away,

and out the front door I would go, keys in hand, for I’ve made
that mistake plenty of times too…

The mail was there, as I knew it’d be
and saw the slate of bills, personalized
especially just for me…and then there was another one

Unstamped, without return address,
a letter anonymously delivered doesn’t
happen every day, so of course it piqued
my curiosity.

Back inside now, in front of the white noise that often
quickly becomes of the news, I sorted the bills into piles,
when that intriguing piece I handled again…

Little knife to slit it’s throat
pouring out the note within

Sweetly scented yet
mysteriously short

M.L.E. dreams of you
M.L.E has reserved you a bed

XOXOXOX

Hmm.. I must admit, how odd this all was
So I quickly opened my little, and I do mean little,
black book, quality over quantity, that’s what I’ve
always perfunctorily said…no emily’s though did I find

Perhaps, it was a girl who noticed me from afar, stalked me
good and is only now reaching out her arms…yes, she must be
a bit on the shyer side, I do like that so, coy, yet ready
too..Or maybe it’s some new temp at the firm, and she’s waited her
time, biding it well, and now, due to the circumstances surrounding
the friday last, she had no choice but to jump out of her shell…perhaps,
but I like the first thought best, so i went with it as I often did…

So i smelled the letter deep, inhaling it’s scent and elated well,
how easily it was, I realized then, for an enchantress to ensnare me
in her teasing spell..

Front and back, I held it fast, procuring a flood of dreams I’d though
dried in the past…It was here, where I saw not a number, but an address
for me to walk or ride unto…

So, I showered quickly then and there, phoned my friend dave to see about
using his car, for first impressions, they mean so much, and as much appreciation
I have for these feet, I reckon they wouldn’t arouse such a ripe peach, as my dearest
emily..

He was hesitant, but of course, yet, as he always had, his pity overtook his knowledge
and didn’t seem surprised at all, when I asked to borrow a couple fives and perhaps a ten,
enough for fuel, a film and perhaps…which I’m sure he probably figured he’d get at least that
much back…

So car and cash, I was ready to go, and rather quickly the address appeared.
But without a window or a door, I thought perhaps, a trick’d been played and
in so doing, a modern day Malvolio, I had become..

Twiddling fingers and thumbs, drumming some song that was playing on the stereo,
I thought, out loud at times, wondering if I should get out and search or simply
admit defeat and turn around…when a voice appeared in my ear, “Go get her tiger” and
so I checked my breath, and was confused at best, so to be sure I popped in the last
of the mint’s dave had in here, hopped out onto the concrete, locked the doors and
walked up to this ominous place, with only positive thoughts in mind, I was intent,
this time, a good time I’d find.

Around and round, side to side, an entry way I couldn’t find
until, a panel opened at the side, to which I was taken a back in my somewhat
jogging stride, and knock I never had a chance to, when a beautiful girl opened
and said hello…

I stammered a bit, this I must admit, but she knew my name, and stars I swear
I saw in her eyes, I know, cliche, but that didn’t matter me much, for I was so, so
very deeply in love. “won’t you come inside,” she invited me, so sultry in each
words construction, I feared she’d see the smoke my skin was coking, and so, as
brilliantly as I could muster, “yes,” were the words I uttered, powerful, yes that
is how I convinced myself as to how it sounded, for she smiled wide, and didn’t
slam the door, not soft, not loud.

Following emily was like having an angel light my path, and how direct was this girl,
this woman with intentions upon little old me, to her bedroom we first arrived, and there,
then and there, she started to undress, and her perfection became extremely bare, too which
I could not say what happened next, for I don’t remember anything, anything at all…but I do remember
finally answering a call…

A small warehouse then disappeared and all within would ever reappear. Until, months later, in some
other town, a large brick building would grow, out of an empty lot, and there stood the girl, locking
up behind herself. She walked down the street, to a bank at the crossroads of village and town. In she
walked, and heads would turn, she was that stunning of a girl. The teller asked her how she could help, to
which Emily replied, “I have some checks I’d like to deposit,” and the teller accepted them readily.

One after the other, the counting machine rang, until all all were deposited and the transaction was completely done. The
young clerk then asked, “pardon me, if you don’t mind my asking,” Emily nodded and so the girl continued, “How does a young
girl, like yourself, earn such sums of money.” Emily seemed somewhat taken back, yet smiled wide, gazing deep into the tellers
youthful eyes, “I’ve had very good teachers.” “Oh, I see, will you be returning with more checks,” the girl replied. “Most definitely,” was
all emily would say. She packed her things and headed out the door. The young teller followed emily to the street and called out to here, one final time,
“Can you show me how…” to which emily, swished her hair, barely swiveling back to see the girl, “Perhaps, one day, you and I can make a deal.”
Emily’s infectious quickly painted itself upon the young girl’s face…

An hour or so later,

the teller, while on break,
pulled out one of the checks Emily had deposited earlier,
staring at it for quite sometime,
perhaps out of awe,
perhaps for inspiration, or
to try and dream of things to come.

It was here, that we read, the title and the theme:

MELANCHOLIC LIBERATION ENGINEERS

Pay to bearer: The sum of 1,000,000 dollars

Signed,

Les Mephistophe

ECU: Young teller’s face.

The smile has been replaced,
by a look,
that can only possibly be
categorized as that
of fear

FADE OUT

For Poetics at D’Verse, where Brian Miller has prompted us to write about Choices.
Head on over and see what choices, the poets have made

Ink Stains

In the summer of 2004, an article was written for Forbes magazine. However, as a result of an erroneous delivery, the editorial department at Hustler magazine received the article instead. The piece, although not Hustler’s typical expose, was accepted, for reasons unknown, and was then scheduled to appear in the September 2004 issue of the widely distributed adult magazine.

The editorial staff at Hustler used, what I’ll loosely term, liberal doses of creative licensing. In fact they completely ignored the introductory paragraph, reworded the foreword to spell foreplay, and replaced all the original photography with photographs the magazine shot themselves, images they felt were more appropriately suitable for print.

Meanwhile, months had passed and the author of this article had been trying to reach the editorial department at Forbes magazine. He was extremely proud of the work he had done and was quite astonished he hadn’t heard back as of yet. It was then, a few days before the article would appear in Hustler, that a check for $1500.00 USD arrived in his PO Box. The author found the sum to be on par with what he had expected, but was taken a bit aback by the Hustler logo being not only on the receipt stub, but also on the check itself, with no association given whatsoever to Forbes. But, as most things in this world, bills were due and the money couldn’t have arrived at a more opportune time for this author. He had been getting by with what remained of the last few articles he had written for Business Week, The Wall Street Journal and oddly enough High Times, but was certainly feeling the crunch of a downtrodden economy. Work was hard to come by and with regurgitated articles being recycled by editorial staffers, the check was a blessing he could not question. After all, he simply assumed that the companies were in one way or another related.

The evening of publication, an anonymous blogger, who happened to be both a subscriber to the adult publication and a big admirer of this author’s work, received his copy, hot off the press, in the mail as was the case each month. The blogger and this author’s had yet another connection, they both followed one another on twitter and had at one point or another both liked each other’s facebook pages, with the blogger providing many more likes than what the author reciprocated.

The anonymous blogger saw his “friend’s” article and was stunned, as this was not simply an oddity to see the author’s article in a magazine like Hustler, but also that the style of writing that he had grown accustomed to reading in this magazine, didn’t quite mesh with this style of composition.

So instantly the blogger decided to get the scoop. He direct messaged the author on twitter while simultaneously liking the article on facebook. He even went so far to assist his “friend” by sending out a tweet declaring his “friends’ contribution to this magazine. A tweet that his 40,000 or so followers would then receive. To do his “friend” one more gesture of free promotion and publicity he decided to compose a short blog entry regarding the admirable merger of the two contrasting styles. An excerpt from that entry read:

“…’s newest article is featured in this month’s issue of Hustler magazine. This union of the ultra-conservative author and the liberal adult publication. The article itself is a drilling expose on the injustices and atrocities handed down to….proving that no trader is above the exchange commission. The article consists of 1947 words, with 114 being the, the most widely used definite article of them all.

The blogger went to sleep quite proud of himself. The next morning he found that this was all a mistake. He learned second hand that his friend’s good name had been sullied in the overnight hours. He also learned he gained quite a large spike in followers, yet he didn’t find out until much later in the afternoon, that he had lost a friend in the process, for he no longer was able to direct message this author.

The author, a recovering alcoholic, was seen slamming V8’s from his car, as he awaited for the local 24 hour grocery store to open its doors. When they finally did, he noticed a help wanted sign, where more information could be had by inquiring within. The man purchased some cat litter for his 13 year-old Maine Coon Jasper, a $2.00 Corky Romano DVD, a day old donut and five bags of Ramen noodles. At the counter he asked about the job position, but before the clerk could hand him the application to fill out, a woman from his local church looked intently at him, only mustering a “tssk, tssk,” look. The author left the application and left the store at a loss for words.

Seven years after publication, the anonymous blogger is now operating as a high-priced freelancer for TMZ. The author, in a weird twist of fate, met with the model who appeared in the photographs that replaced the photos he submitted with his original article. The two had a great laugh and to his surprise, the author found the woman refreshingly gorgeous and intelligent. They are now married with two children. The woman at the grocery store is still “tssk, tssking” every person and everything, that acts in any manner that contrasts those ideals that she has been and is currently told to believe.