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29 March 2006 @ 01:09 pm
 
Theme: memory
Untitled
No particular warnings, a test try into modernist writing



You - the sound of flint and steel, a flicker and the taste of liqourice flavoured smoke. Like a prayer, the smoke whispers through the humid night, a drift of thoughts and impressions, vague and spectre feeling: phantom kisses of ashes (passionate kisses of exchanging deadly ashes - yes, that) that taste like over-ripe strawberries mingled with the fragrance of shampoo and skin; soap that smells like blueberry pancakes and golden syrups on crispy mornings, skin so warm it seemed to be on fire next to your cold cold hands that felt like cream and wrinkles and human, yes that was what you wanted. To touch - key - feel.

Lying sprawled on the navy sheets, the night murmurs; sultry, hot and windless as the moon shines coldly. Unjudging, unforgiving as a gaping open mouth of despairing white it screams its secrets across the wombed sky of swaying poppies - red skies. Red gauze wrapped embryos of the night with sleeping humans in their fragile cradles and homes, gestating for the new birth of sunrise. Sleep soundly and sweet, so long and goodnight - sardonic. But you like the night; the paradoxical craving for the pitiless empty void and unjudging acceptance. The merciless sky arches only infinitely with the grey towers of uniform blocks like the labyrinth of your mind - twisted in an aimless and directionless maze where none can meet except under poppy fielded skies that sway amongst wasted clouds that do not move - static images of windy meadows of red: blur, distant, elusive and unreachable. Red: carmine, magenta, cadmium, madder the names roll of your lips like a litany of old friends and lost loves. Like the roses you once bought, velvety red Lincoln roses with sooty hearts and soft petals, spicy and sweet and warm flowerscented souls only released in the night that smelt like hugs (with arms around and head buried in the shoulder and hair spilling down the arm).

hugs. The last time you had one. Perhaps it wasn't so much roses but of cream and old silk - grey silk like the hard concrete or dove birds with pearls. The sweaty hand that clutched yours as you walked smartly down the street with your mother walking straight ahead - as if fixed in a far distance. The sun laid hot against your back, a bright red cap that shaded your eyes from the over-large sky (so small you were, tiny and insignificant) and then you asked her that perhaps reality was really just as far away as the sky. The grip tightens and she ignores you as you walk together into the supermarket, away from the sun. Then you ask again, that perhaps this time the sky was even futher than reality and she left you standing in the empty aisle with a cutting retort you never forgot.

Images unforgotten : that is our specialty. The sepia-toned yesterdays of late afternoon sunshine on emerald trees, leaves tipped and branches glided in the purest shade of gold that warmed to amber as we waited on cracked cream and orange seats of peeling paint and creaky metal with the wind dancing merrily to the flurry of yellow flame petals that dusted the rough concrete floor with the cars rushing by to somewhere, anywhere and nowhere. The flow of buses - noisy and noxiously fumed like clugging metal boats with ungainly wheels we watched as we swung our legs against the seats, scraping paint with our heels as we made the silliest jokes about blue houses and teapots singing angst-filled songs as cheerfully as possible while delighting in the hilarious incongruity of dead babies, bleached blonde hair and sexy leather pants that caused immient impotency.

The midsummer sun has long passed, a cold sun changes to a new colour even as the wind flows past - I can never reach you. Shades of scars that mingle with the colours of new seasons - the jaded light of the sun casts a cyan tone of crystal; panes of glass that glitter and reflect your faces into mine; a falling vertigo balancing arcoss a bridge of moving patterns to watch like clockwork. The night is dying as the song ends: this slow melody that echoes so mysteriously even at it's closure. Watching, waiting - the red womb of night bleeds into the violent morning crying and flying with sparkling banners of pinks and dew greens trumpeting freely and loudly as if proclaiming the washing of sins into the night into the birthing day, The light begins to stream again - through gauze curtains as the smoke from your final cigarette dies into ashes and embers awashed with liqourice and the lemony scent of a crispy air as you breathe in. The night is over and you wake -

Alone.
 
 
 
refried papermachetsu_ on April 2nd, 2006 01:36 pm (UTC)
*keeps that in mind* Thanks very much~ I'll edit it as soon as possible then.

Faulkner....I've never heard of him actually ^^;; but I'll definitely find "Light in August". I suppose Cambridge isn't very fond of American Lit (it's never included in the syllabus) and the closest I've ever come to it is Sylvia Plath and Ted Hughes.