River's Bourne (Prose)

I have arrived…

Before tongues coiling the Embarassment of a personal globe descending upon a cobbled lane in a rose-freckled vale, all rehearsals await as memories and desires are weighed; a little girl makes acquantiance by the beating of the rain, harmonies of oblivion’s constancy bellows — as if in tune with her pale, drawn out eyes, scaling like predators upon all landscapes. Do they thaw to her thoughts?..

No! — all vexations and impatience bear an abrased eye, red with the awakening of the Sun for no dream…

Battlefields are glazed in darkness, lit vigils mine for gold — all men express the same body…

Her stoup has been tainted by foreign paws, ancient beasts, and wrinkled fingers — with pointed nails — insisting to slough — isle’s of moss float like the petals on Ophelia’s breast, still with the waves, maggots of magenta and purple suckle the bleached Earth, gnawing Venus’ clumpy, white scalp — their coagulation of adulthood is white by their reflected flesh.

Trickles merge to symphonies, storms are mere Orchestra’s that guide the passing mind, the hollow chests of walls echo like a basin of tin, waterfalls and golden streams of mercury flood the horizon…

—As the foam from the gold trumpets bowl coils around my wrist, exploding all mounds and hairs into a panting beast. It dares only to awake for fated sensations.

I have returned…