Fanglings

What strange shapes we take between the legs of the table, after the feast has fallen around us.

A CWK inspired post, mostly pictures, legging into my TE.

Oh, Simon. First this, then that. Now little bumps on your head. Now little dents in mine.

What have you done this time?

I don't blame video games (I've taken my turn with the gore). I don't blame the media. I don't blame theatrical glorifications. What stains here is my own. I won't say the color; I won't say the smell. I won't say it was next up on my list of things-to-try-and-paint-with. It's not profane, it's not eccentric, it's not Freudian, it's not anything but mundane. And it's just a word I don't want to write right now.



I'm not very good at lying. But I'll do it now--I'll change a past thing for a future thing. What does it matter? There's so many lines lines lines lines lines, who's to say it isn't what I say it is.
No one, that's who. So shut yer trap.
I spilled raspberry juice from my last little painting expedition on my jeans and my feet. Fingers, too, but that's because I was using them to paint the background. It didn't really turn out so good, though. There--that's the lie. Just a contextual one; slightly to the left. Slightly forward. That movement is all that makes it false. But it's enough to cover something else.

"Fell asleep with stains, caked deep in the knees--what a pain."

I was always never more than a half acre a way from the front door when I'd fall into the creek. Sink into the mud island. Drag my calves through grass stalks knitted together with a hundred different spider webs. Play with soot-covered sticks from the fire pit. Crawl in the grass. And I brought it all in with me: dirt, grass, mud, soot, and sometimes the things I found in them. How I loved the things I found in them.

But this was not dirt. This was not filth. This was not anything worth blogging about, not when you're not here to remember it with me.

I am giving you a sham. A scam. A false symbol to fuck up and sacrifice. Joseph in chains--but not dead. An exchange is made. You get something to eat and maybe even spend; I get to keep Simon. Simon? Sorry. Joseph. They both have brown eyes to me. And the Joseph chapter in Serres didn't really make sense to me, so I've grafted him to Simon--the idea, not the character.


In this way, things return. They've wised-up proper and come calling again, sharper dressed, longer whiskered. Just left of the guillotine is a little crawl space--go, go, I'm pushing you there, out of here. Suffer again; but live again. Die Another Day--but not now. Not here. This isn't over. This isn't over. But it is--you won't come back the way you left. But that's alright, the good mother says, the bad mother says. Pasiphae does not make the same mistake twice. Bad mother. Bad romance. Bad child; bastard. But oh, how she loves him the second time 'round. They are so awful together it makes them dizzy.

I am saving;caching;hiding;storing. Storying? Maybe--maybe. When you don't write, I certainly write for you. You're quite the zombie in my head. I am pushing this until it gets into the walls; until the laces begin to hiss away like eager little snakes (but that is wrong--they hiss when they are fearful). I will be putting this off until it grows blue. No; this is nothing to do with blue. Blue is thin here, blue is weak. Until it is azure.