The Red Dragon In Black Leather

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No matter how complex our instruments may be, no matter how sophisticated and subtle our theories and calculations, it’s still our consciousness that finally interprets our observations. And it does so according to its knowledge and conception of the event under consideration. It’s impossible to separate the way consciousness works from the conclusions it makes about an observation. The various aspects that we make out in a phenomenon are determined not only by how we observe, but also by the concepts that we project onto the phenomenon in question.

Matthieu Ricard

The dead would ride by asleep in long black shiny cars, ready for whatever, the mourners sick with their own mortality cry tears for themselves, mindless of the sex and the filth but a hands breadth away through steamed windows as they glided past. The rain would fall and his lips would be on her breasts hungry and grasping, mindless of the pain of it and the sheer anger their lovemaking entailed. Arms and legs smashed against the interior. She would cry out and he would close his eyes and steady himself, lost.

She would anger quick, the fucking energised her, made her want to exclaim, and he would would shush her and hold her nipple tight in a grip of pain betwixt finger and thumb, rolling it. She closed her eyes and through the windscreen and the world about the clouds parted for a second and the low December Sun shone through and lit her exposed breasts and throat, her lips parted a little and she opened her eyes and the sun shone out of them a blue so blue, so lost, a blue of Arctic skies. The thin light made the drops of rain on the windows shine like diamonds on her skin. Leave the light on sweetest heart, Let me think of the summer, and let this evil be gone. But it never did and the frigid damp air of the cemetery blew through the window. 

He offered her a Conker he had picked up this second. It had split as it had fallen. But don’t we all? A beautiful seed, polished and here, it occupied a position in the grass aside from its kind. So shined so expertly produced a marvel it was. He offered it to the girl who stood before him before him. She wore a simple Red dress and white cotton pinafore, a mass of tumbled blonde hair that had been kitchen cut and slashed but not tamed yet. She laughed and kissed his cheek and ran into the greenery. He looked down and saw he had pissed himself. In the sky a black triangle revolved.

The desert was abandoned, the desert sucked him in, made him feel like a thing, a cog in a whole complex of other cogs. He drew heavily on the cigarette to dampen the heavenly smells of the Gasoline mixed with the perfume of the night blooming desert flowers. As time flowed around him he felt time itself as a shroud to be escaped, and now here so close, he could feel the tendrils of it fall off him like mist. He saw the Eigen split, and he shrunk before the power of the the vast sky. Within it a Great Red Dragon spun between the spokes of the Suns final rays. He vomited again, between his feet. In the distance ghostly cities long gone and soon to come drifted on the horizon.

Here and there a Rabbit would bound from bush to thin bush looking for something or some other Rabbit, It bounded, hid behind a depression in the ground then jumped again, skittish aware. It stopped at a plant and started to eat it looking around at all times for some Predator or what ever.. As Dillinger watched it, unnoticed across that Purple and deep Blue sky a thin White line appeared from the North, thin and crisp and with great speed it split the sky in half. The upper half Blue and Black, the lower half Purple, light Blue and Golden. The line changed direction once twice, three times etching the sky with geometric precision, a set of lines that made up Triangles, and squares within squares, triangles on edge, upside down slicing the skyscape with ordered and accurate lines.

He looked at her smiling and smiled himself, despite the pain. In the Circle clouds made shapes of a woman laughing at something. Her sunglasses are high, pushed back on her head. Her breasts bounce as she laughs and the sun shines. The fuel push-rod on the Beetle is worn and in the distance the  Farmer idly pushes the dirt, and there she stood and framed herself in the mighty sun and she shone like an Angel. The wind blew and her hair moved with it and got in her eye and she laughed and spluttered as one went in her mouth she leaned against the Car and her Red dress tightened across her belly her hips bumped as she laughed and covered her mouth as she was shy now, who knew why. Her eyes told a story made free with sun frozen stars so bright speckled and golden like little suns in the Desert night cool air. Her feet are dirty I clean them with some bottled water and she laughs as the water is cold, but her feet are clean. I light a spliff and a radio somewhere id blaring out the Crosby Stills Nash and Young track ‘You don’t have to cry’. She laughs and sings along while things get hazy for me.

Laure

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