The 18th Saturday

Air was sedated by the climax of memory. Whatever material gave shape to this thought, and to this path, was distorted by the bitterness of eyes. I had seen before. I am seen before! Who ‘I Am’ is no more than a pentameter of purity, like veins or mollusc-fine rivers, that run deep with the inheritance of it’s source. And to dive would be to breathe. For where I would stop breathing would be where I’d learn the art of suffocation. My childhood is patched in a red eye and bruises but the wincing infernity of a backward man is as clear as the profits of Dawn. To greed, from the soul’s seductiveness in growth to the omnipresent fool, is where necessity forms. Like a child, the rapids of tantrum and the knot of innocence, I recoil and search in opposites.

“The smoke from an infant’s habit will be your mark

But your mark will be your addiction, where loss is concerned,

And, Mr.Kingston, you shan’t be compared to anything sensual”

“Slit my throat, Margarie!”

The top-hat was quizzical.

The shadow below Mr.Kingston’s eyes made him an abstract configuration of a snail’s intellect.

Such hollow monsoons gave him the accolade of a great thinker, a stain on history. Or from the snail’s eyes: a stain on humanity, a stain on a shoe, a stain outgrew.

But, for one, she knew. Margarie was no gallow-maker — more of a shadow-taker.

A title she would claim only unto herself. A rabid dresssense, her colours weren’t a representation of her simplicity. (So simple is the touch). To be quite honest, she annoyed everyone! Even the talk of her was annoying. It may have been the way she handled her hair, too rudimentary for her job, or the way she handled her customers. A doeful blunder. For one…she couldn’t cut hair to save a

life!

“The expression will be of crooked Parisian expertise,

Your steps will hold a perfomance, a deceit of beauty

And, Miss.Barlington, you shan’t ever dance to contemporary sensibility”

“Hold me tighter, Rupert!”

The make-up was blocking.

She had the hilarity of a dancer, the sterness of one too. From One wrinkle to another, Miss.Barlington had the brains of one. Or she was wasted in the salty rivers that compose the flesh of ancient civilizations. Her lips, her eyelashes, would be glossed in a hue of romance if she never squeked unreasonable distains.

Rupert, a beige heart, could understand. Moreover would his senses be pricked if he claimed he understood him not understanding in what he should’ve understood. But being a man of beige blood, and cardboard cruelty and typical sound, he stood under most people. Only ever overstanding his childhood. There was little meaning in his step. Ironically, one would call him sensible!

“The reflection will be that of a noble aptitude

Though, the noblity will be contrived from a pitiful imperial

And, Captain Ascott, you shall rely solely on the self-begrudgement of your senses”

“Pull me up, Morgan!”

The white-howl was fortunate.

The Moon had become the pupil of his eyes, he was a student of the Ocean, a teacher of drudgery.  Captain Ascott was a man of relapse, rivers were virgin but he would never quiver to such foreign lands as he would to slacking imitations. He was one too — he must've been in his mind. He relied solely on the anchor of his throat which was abrased by lasting impressions, upon which he relied on and would pity himself for in the minutes to come.

The Seaman Morgan, a moonlit sort of fellow, had become to know the reflections of the tide and the weight of his Captain’s orders that took years to sink in. It would seem the masts of a virgin ship would wrinkle within a second. A mask burnt to solemn cruelty in a sunken theatre. Only if he

performed!

Reality is a farce and I embody everything at least once in case I die.

Life is a den of expression, a nonsensical blayant of truth that only has meaning to itself.

Words are the ugly prophet— the forgotten adolescence of Gods.

And the 18th Saturday is the most glorious affection to everscape humanity. Whatever that should be!