The wall (Red Dragon III)

003324The point in the world where it is no longer straight forward but straight up. The wall of mountains. Crushed surface scattered with the Earth’s sleepy dust. Not to move for a million more years. And even then a movement that defies observation. Earth’s reticence, Gaia’s timidity.

The heaven’s rain on the old enemy of dry rock. The golden sun’s trace. The ill effect dry-frozen in its moments of strength. A lost friend that will return one day.

Four days remembering four years. Living memories. Revisiting dreams. Different and similar people. Mountain’s change. Various colours’ and descriptions’ flashes imprinted on his mind. Difficult to recall response.

Radiant reds well fed by warm sun. Bruised purple by oppressive forces. Mediocre yellows by elders. Sparse greens by push and shove and provoking envy. White of chalk and lye, broken like dirty ice cubes. Brown all around, muddy canvas washing.

Colours equal to the environment, faces indigenous to the colours. Not reflective of a people, but a people reflective of a vicious god, dropping fist, not drooping faith. The geological seismic ripple of live red Richter. Unfelt. Bruised purples still radiate pain. The dragon still sleeps.

All telling words (Red Dragon II)

dsc03269All telling words, telling of all that was to tell of having studied every last scale on the dragon’s back. Bad ways and worse methods. Thoughts of mockery. What to do with the dewy rose inspiration of an early morning investigation?

A tormenting treatment, a red back, unshifting. Patiently blood warming, who dares cower in leafy shade? Red dragon, sleeping rock. Harsh cemetery, dry scales. Cling to the walls, pray for midday plus one. When will the street be half covered with cool.

See the rocky back, via alley after alley. Side street. Burgandy back. Lifeless lizard, soothing sun. Take the overseer’s piercing ray, perhaps the dragon does, on another level. A blood warming frequency. Perhaps just waiting, resting on a soft white stomach on a cool valley floor. Drinking water from the river.

Somewhat shallow, call covering, tepid temperature. What of the cool breeze that fleets through the empty ribs of the valley? Chilling to a point. Firing its way through various flaws and weak points. Interstitial. Not fiery breath, nor smoky trails.

Where is its fire? Based on precious metals and stolen from within? Coin operated? The poverty of the people no longer freezes the fire that used to burn inside. They ignorantly clipped innocent wings. Yet they will fly once again. Soaring the lengths of the Andean aviary, power ever returned. Lived to see another day.

More than one gunfight took place here, more than one reason put the dragon there, the choice of all the world. Option, to sleep in Tupiza. To cleave not the wanderlust surgically from this man’s very incentive to live. Under any words, low frequency breathing and seismic inquietude. The red arched back in pretence of rock hummed a frequency. The real treasures that shouldn’t be mined, a dragon’s diaphragm at its resonant frequency. Only the few know the sound, despite us all hearing it.

Which will find the truth? He hopes all. He hopes none. He hopes for the revival of the red dragon. For now nothing is known. To walk to the neck, climb the head in the mind. Aim for the white cross shallow in the dragon’s nape. Fall in the mind’s eye, blank of oxygen and struggle and vertical efforts. Reach, arms thrown, looking for support, around the shoulders of the cross. It was weak, its basis was basic. It folds. It breaks in the arms. The wings are liberated.

The artist and the slave

A verbal photograph. A picture in words. The black on white postcard. Linguistic description. A sketch. A typewriter. Pages. Pages of a sketch pinned. Pinned behind a typewriter. Loosely sitting at its climax. The final strokes.

The first words of truth. The companion for life. A soul met before. A point in life. Usually a reckless point or point of recklessness. Behaviour and attitude. Saying goodbye, saying see you soon, saying never again.

The feelings to force words into a picture. Impelling circumstances. Reunited with a lost soul manifested de nuevo on the page, in words.

A fabricated story. Designed before two characters separate. This is what they tell people happened. This is contrived. Take a boat and sit the passengers to a banquet. Stand up and orate a picture. Put them in the middle of the ocean and tell them principally there is nowhere to go. The boat is not going further north and the captain doesn’t know where Buenos Aires is, less have desire to find out.

Truth as a bond. This story is for two people, the other people are not to be bonded. They are not to know the truth. The fine print didn’t exist. The bond was oral. A picture prediction in words. A promise postcard.

The page ripped from the typewriter. The corner set alight. The black stain creeping across the soul. The black flaky ashes testament to a combination of words that only once will ever exist. Self justification for having written.

The second half of the orange is far away. She comes in segments. A couple separated by the white pithy ether. The bond stands. The collective intelligence of the universe bangs entry. There is a secret it needs to know.

Truth’s chances of survival in the long run? Shouldn’t be put on paper or set for the record. Who stands to lose or benefit from this outcome. The secret known to two people. Two famous characters from history. Lovers or warring enemies. How many secrets lie in how many graves?

A man alone on an island exercises his personal boundaries. A border patrol and summit. Futility proven. A man on an island alone, writing. There is no telephone, there is no means of communication. He writes a portrait in words. The etymological drawing.

A feeling shared, guarded by several sentries. The journey fits on the paper. The outline of everything that isn’t secret approaches from the infinite. The outline. Everything that isn’t what is not to be told. The white border of the page. Circumstances and related characters. Never does the other half of the secret appear on the page.

Lies and Hypocrisy is out

lh-cover-4-webSo I did it finally. Only at selected retailers.

Can’t wait to carry on carving something out of the next manuscript in the pipeline.

Zola [on migration?]

Just came across these words from Emile Zola’s Lourdes, which make my spine tingle (English translation below):

Cette religion de la souffrance humaine, ce rachat par la souffrance, n’était-ce pas encore un leurre, une aggravation continue de la douleur et de la misère ? Il est lâche et dangereux de laisser vivre la superstition. La tolérer, l’accepter, c’est recommencer éternellement les siècles mauvais. Elle affaiblit, elle abêtit, les tares dévotes que l’hérédité lègue font des générations humiliées et craintives, des peuples dégénérés et dociles, toute une proie aisée aux puissants de ce monde. On exploite les peuples, on les vole, on les mange, quand ils ont mis l’effort de leur volonté dans la seule conquête de l’autre vie…

knowing that this is our real legacy:851px-spreading_homo_sapiens_la-svg



“This religion of human suffering… was this not yet another lure, a continual aggravation of pain and misery? It is cowardly and dangerous to allow superstition to live. To tolerate, to accept it is to begin the dark evil ages for ever afresh. It weakens and stupefies… the sanctimoniousness bequeathed by heredity produces humiliated, timorous generations, decadent and docile nations, who are an easy prey to the powerful of the earth.” [trans. Ernest Aired Vizetelly, Lourdes, Prometheus Books, 2000, 484-485]