laced like rivers or like blood
Here on earth where
man whose fluid moves into sound away from mountain into the dark home of woodâ€Ś
As the flow of light-fall bends into circle, so there is an angle from which water will follow us here, where the fish are. Here in the shadow, fell of the first mountain to be cut for its ore, the draw is to be found also. The radial sky roots out from a black core, unseen from the far side of the mountain; the water goes as it will. In the emerging day, the land gives fruit to rose, as sand and stone-wall lay the same by rivers as by blood. The slim-line trickle moves the mountain into both. The metal filling splits to spill its lace into flow. Man, the son of symbol, is lifted up in fires, like gold which is so given to light; so man has been given his source. His instinct here in hand, seconds before his hands are brought to mouth; as water taken in, he drinks the mountain, setting free the thirst of all man come before. The animal and the mineral have been given life as one. Their tracks aligned like right and left, east with west, but the water could only run south. Man, looking north to open sky, saw heavens of the cloud form - would walk forever to see the face hidden within them - passing like a ghost over the mountain top; so man would climb, to state his reason and to rationalise his needs: all the while watching into the rivers below him. Seen within them, movement was an echo of the fluid, a deep well where the food and light appeared to dwell, where man could grow. In his descent, he soon discovered that there was also, deep within him, the draw to remain lost. Many and most of detail failed to pull so much as the dense woods, the trail always leading back.
Its dark dress would hold the man of ages, like a wrap of colour fed to the unknown in place of speech.
A world as blood rock
the wood of knot what wound forgives its metals rise up as the periodic changesâ€Ś
A mouthful swell of words or water, love or fish; the sun continued coming to the eyes, turned into vision, to envision the future that man would build. Spreading out, from the skin and bone of forest, he soon moved to stone; his impression cast in earth and yet more horizons. Risen as metallic blood, he was implored by the heights to rise up, and from this molten fount came god the animal, god the man, yet no language nor legend could suffice to bring out union. On gods, his words would hang; the mountain moving all the while. Still, man in its grip of awe, sought to steal the earth of body and of blood. The forge of peace came at a cost, the least for man at first. The mountain bled until the organ had been whole removed, bit by bit, piece by piece. Man chose his favourite, the mount in value grew. The ghost deformed and struck the chord of man; the score grew as percussion, to stretch the mountain side with song and music. The sun continued with its opening; its gift laid down to the holes in the mountain, as though it wore the hard line jaw of an opal moon. His head had needed holes, to feel the breeze of air where swords were swung, his thoughts were sparked, his face leant into and against the cold of air, as light to the furnace dark. His gun gave better range with bullet than with stone. He blew the mountain; for each blast of rock, the air bit more. This grew the man of terror but he continued to look up, and taking a scaffold and soft toy for luck, he began to work the skyline into a wall.
This, his last frontier before his lift off, came as compound, left as the explosive. His element was in space. Bit by bit, piece by piece, he drifted endlessly out like the fade of the mountain into a disappearing light. His distance from the stars, ever greater; his atoms split. His essence gave to the outer body - that second dream of night.
Born to wake
of space he left whose voice he heard of heaven’ s breed - or devil in the naked word…
Hardened in the cold of dark to crystal, man’s blood became the work of all endeavour, the likes of which his life begins, so too his rivers. An earth of pull would draw him in again, much like the forest. He is woke, born as live, his face much like the mountain, no more or less pulled tight over skull. Like fire in the smoke of morning, he is cool. Lifting out over his head, the sleep wore off as it interspersed with the night left in the air. In his arms he lay exposed in the heart of the west side of the mountain, the face of which looked from elsewhere as though the rock had been withdrawn in a devil’s bite. His dream of only one man appeared true. The sun continued to rise within his spirit as he spoke for the first time. For the first time he heard his sound. He was sound. His mouth wide jaw, like moon or river, broke the sound through a great barrage of flesh. Into sound he began, the flow having rhythm, found its way free of flesh and rose up like the mountain or the dream, into a community of spirits from the life before his. Sound echoed the river as too his blood. He listened to the space between himself and the mountain, making sound, then not a sound was made nor heard, then he was returned to resonate the mountain open.
He closed his mouth, taken by his breathless reach to call again from against the side of the mountain, he heard his name for the first time, unheard before now. The earth responded back to him and the distance shortened his breath into different sounds and broke into separate voices. The earth was space anew, and his surprise awakened. He was the source of his own fear. He chose the voices he would hear from now on, the sire of ignorance, sure as the stirring of image and its resonance in the mountain air. With sound made, the mountain was more real than its image; had the sound made him more real than the dream, where he slept soundly, surrounded by quiet forest and a mountain which had never slept as he did?
The sun with him
he walks its line of mountain calling where night would climb a dreamer seeing stars align, the dark withholdsâ€Ś
The names worked out of sound and into mountain and into him. The new mirror seemed better than before, gave better vision to the eyes. His eyes of string put one and one together became two until he heard everything, and too much. He set his sights to where the sound had come. His eyes screamed in wonder.
Set on the far side of the mountain, the sun
continued to give light. He called to its heart to stay but knew that only the earth could decide. Into a time of his own unknown, he went blind into darkness.
The line he
travelled, snaked off down and round the mountain, passing all in the bare starlight. Looking up to find the space he could not hear, his eyes grew wider still. He let shouts of open roar into the dark window, and the black said nothing in return. He waited to listen and still nothing came. He continued to move across the horizon, picking up what he could of the landscape, which dipped low in places and then
rose itself to great height. He was unsure of the hold which darkness had taken, but grew to believe that the light would come back to him. He was certain that he would see again. All the climb, he heard the walk of his feet, and his mind clung to how the light was sure to return. The dark beneath him had a pull much like the forest or the dream before. He walked on, between darknesses. Stopping to break, he called to the sun, still no answers came. Resigned to the compass of dark, he stood, looking up. The stars continued to light. He looked out again across the line he had felt as he walked, it seemed even darker - almost nothing. And searching to where he had been pointed by his sounds; nothing was yet to speak of, but it did seem as though there were not much. Looking once again, he suddenly came to realise that where he stood the light was little, but there was light. He saw himself in light thereon; his wonder rose to scream once more into the edge and coarseness of the night. He slept. In darkness all was nothing, but himself. His dreams moved in the colour of his head, leaking across the unknown of a dark template, as though poised to ripen out into their future form. His blood and water, moving to flow alternately within the deepest side of the mountain. His mind awash.
Of his in mind
now dreams come to a mirror rises fluent out from black to follow light of blueâ€Ś
Where it has dawned, the light and water fall as one. He finds himself awake, swimming out a last stroke of dream sight; the embers
from his torch call heat to rouse the sleeping giant to a cast of simple shadows. The sun has come again. Different as the sight he wakes to, his eye filled infinite as only the night could know. He seen all manner of beast and animal; in the light now, each one of motive as impure. His dreams were cure for their teeth cuts. He seen the way of water poured from blood; the life of a river wound to pass not far from where he had slept, as though while he slept the mountain turned. With his mind inside-out, from having been restored as light and heavy, the might and safety of rock, he knew that the night was over. Darkness gone, the day had opened other eyes, and rains soon stopped. His dream must have been taken in exchange. For this new day, it meant only as much as the fresh of wept moisture glistening the air, nothing he could carry in his hands or on his back. In the new sun his journey continued, his earth the same below him. More to come; he made his way to follow like rivers bend, his mind in fluid motion, pressed in every step. Behind him, rain had broken in through light-fall, leaving dreams to colour the water left over from the night before. His blood warmed in the morningâ€™s breath as he let his own out again into the wet lining of day one, nothing to follow but the steps back. His hunger rolled. The need is blood
he hungers - love in flesh flesh in food beneath a shelter sun consumedâ€Ś
At the far end of his eye line, a form similar in stature crossed as sight into his mind and he set off running. The scream - all he carries, as though somewhere he had been shown the imminent return of night.
In the quickness of his instinct, little followed which he had any
response to time or test. His current ran throughout, a gathered pain of blood tore were it
drew. His cause now buried deep into blood and flesh. He heard the screams in every falling drop, the source held in the hope of rivers that would bleed or the light of stars. His mind darkened in the moment, his eyes shut wide as anguish. Seeing that the ends were closing, he reached into the body of still life, his blood and meat forced deep as the hole. In the moment of climax, the fight of life left his hands as it gave its touch to a flame of dream, too soon forgotten. The animal spread, a dark pink mess sprawled the green around him. He moved, gently dismounting the beast in full daylight, recognising it only as the one of his dreams. The sun high in the day above him, he took its nourishment to continue the feast he had begun.
Where life is fed to appetite
his eye is left to wander first through day gave then to sleep - under a night fell pale to moon songâ€Ś
A clean metal, rings his dried red mouth as he looks for the sky to fell its water and refresh his torn skin; he walks out into the open earth, unprepared for the heat, but no longer hungry. The ground now hot with blood and rivers; here has been the scene set of more than one day alone could ever tell. Nothing more or less than satisfied, he returns as though a new beginning were born of its spring, a battle to come of man and beast and him, a battle he could only ever lose, but a new beginning. He moved now, well and upward looking as he rose to the base of the standing
mountain, the shade now curved into sight and seemingly softened as the birth of nightfall landed to stem in his direction. With the flight of delicate breeze all that remained, his body took to curl a handful of flesh and he began to drift again, soon part of some other story. The waiting moon shone as a white powder in the evening, its shadows not yet visible to the naked eye. As the light spawned its darkness, the clear water lost its mirror, only seeing the first of stars in the open headed skyline. No light had yet stretched so far into the water as to colour its life, or taint the flow. A spirit well of quicksilver rode endlessly over the foothills, in his dreams the blood was more like gold.
Published on Jul 30, 2010
laced like rivers or like blood A world as blood rock the wood of knot what wound forgives its metals rise up as the periodic changes… Its d...