Placid Geometry


What do you mean it was all getting a little too much? The touch? The lingering fingertip? The blood too hot? The bumping and grinding of the carriage. The past catching up too as the whole thing gets faster, and the happiness will never last(a). Of course in the wide scheme of things which dictate at least some semblance of order, the whole caboodle crunches not grinds. It’s the one that will offer a damp hand and a quick peck on the cheek as you fondle your way onto the methods of transport and the confines of it maybe. But what are words when the horrors that befall us seem to stack up. The woodpile of woe isn’t it? The strange narrative of grey men in an office and access to the internet. The wide glaring slickness of their web pages and portals, the ease in which they squeeze you into something you ain’t baby.

They’re just chalk lines babycakes. Lines on a cold floor that we crouch and watch as they shiver and change, candles flicker and the air gets fucking thicker. It’s not dog whistle sex just hallucinations maybe, as you kick your legs out and get your freak on and everything doesn’t make sense and that’s the greatest thing of all surely? The way we carouse and fondle. The way the need makes you ache and the lies you lay onto your fantasy just shakes and shivers. Makes your breasts move just a little as you look and I say ‘there’ and you see. But look past the lines and make the eyes ‘able’ make them sicker to see the truth as it stands. In ink, paint and intent. Your breasts loose and not a pace away they sit and read newspapers, talk shit and get bit.

She knows that time is very short, she see’s it in the air around her as it winds and curls around the memetic drifts of information flow. And we do make repairs to sex engines with sigils too you know. We do know how the Police watch and we do suspect that there’s a crime in there somewhere if we look close enough. Especially as God has turned it’s back for a few of those endless interstellar seconds. We know and it knows. The clouds look strange above the town today and we wait for something and I touch your little finger and watch the humanity course it’s way through the tunnels and the systems. What we have? Well she has her husband, and we have the metaphysical spaces to grow into, they are vast baby. Big endless dollops of variables, the static maths of a tongue here and there. Of kisses that taste of cigarettes and the acid remembrance of that line you choked back and that cord fastened tight as you wondered. And he never fucks you just right. You don’t even blather through the damp cloth of your pillow. He is the dampness incarnate. He is the forgotten body in the street. Endless and anonymous. Puerile and sick. He takes photos of the food you make and say’s ‘Yeah wait a minute’ as he laughs at something on his phone and he never noticed your hair or grabbed your ass as you passed him around the table. He never looked at you the way I did but you had no control here darling. I was lost years before and now I just stumble.

But your eyes of course reflect the abyss and the muscles around your eyes turn that pretty face into a mask as you know you can’t let all the information in. I slap your arse as you get up and you giggle and that too is a mask for need. A covering of modesty in your naked madness, a civility not deserved after what you just did and what you cried out in your joy. It’s all pantomime and you know it, and i’m thankful for it, as I think you understand even if your real language is that of a drifting hand and a subtle touch, or a laugh, a sigh maybe.

Of course tumbling through the air was pure acting, the backwards jump into traffic and the words I could write fall into the spaces between the keys and I need 333 letters in this alphabet. 23 that I can use straight away and the rest…in touches and bites, teeth on flesh and the sudden need to hold on tight under the pressure and the spite. 

Cap-Lock fucking everything louder than anything else and the roar of blood blurs chalk lines fast doesn’t it? The fakeness of it belies what a danger it is. My hand around your throat and I say am I not a man? Do I not have rights too? As you have hobbled strange chains around our feet we stumble and fall while you dance free. You mock but we remember. And it is us that fight Dragons not you. All is lost baby, all is gone to dust and I suspect thirty three days is all we have and the dust will fall on the pretty things you stack around your room. The essence will always stay of course. My hand moving under your shirt and my thumb pressed between your lips, and the dress is too tight but you look good as you move and we grab onto each other as they walk around oblivious and strange. Lost in their own way between the sheaths of finance letters, bills and promises and the likes you get on your new photo and he lies snoring next to you as you ache bitter thoughts. Maybe. 

He of course stood on the Dam wall and looked over the lush greenery of the valley and all was quiet, all was pure peace upon it as he guarded and watched. Over the valley the six peaks of heavens edge glistened under the fall of snow they had received, but no snow ever falls into the valley and no leaf ever browns and falls. On each peak an Angel of geometry. To watch with him was ever their end. To watch and see the valley and to cover the sacred tree with their light. But he ‘huffed’ and walked across the thick flagstones across the dam and his feet blurred the chalked geometry upon them and a little chalk dust was caught by the wind and blew over the dam wall into the forest which knew no decay. All was good.

In the Hospital I tore out the tubes and lines and I fell to the floor. Quickly I arranged the tubes into the geometry across the polished surface as the blood fell from my arms and neck onto the floor. Across from my bed the old man watched motionless apart from his thumb which pressed constantly on his buzzer so they would come running. I had to be fast. Here and there where a tube was too short to complete the sigil I dipped my thumb into the blood and finished the lines. The blood coming thicker now and I was covered and the slashes of that pain bit through me and some yellow liquid was caught within it. A plasma of sorts and a sick end for occult rhymes and sicker words.

In the toilet we fucked and rattled and my hand was again on your throat as you moved to keep me inside you and the pressure was intense and you were lost for more than a couple of moments as I watched the scene through the mirror on the back wall of the compartment. And all was lost wasn’t it. We had done this thing. All was lost. I was finding it hard to concentrate on anything as the lines shifted me out and in. I’m sorry I didn’t really treat you as a real person, but I was lost I think, trapped, always drawing sigils in the blood that fell from me. It always does fall, and with it my ability to function in this space. Dizz-Function. and Jizz-Functional. Your head banging against the side of the wall and your hands spread for something and my hands pulling apart the fastenings of your clothes and the buttons and zips of reality itself. And you wondered why the messages were sparse and coded. I was lost and getting lost(a). Found and abandoned.

Why will it never work out? I’m not that person. Locked into the ring of pain meds or scratching sigils on cell walls, gangsters sitting in cars while she unbuttons herself for the eyes of other men and you watch the line of light split the maroon desert sky. It’s leaning against the VW Beetle as the sun strikes you just right and you laugh as I look for the ten mm spanner. It’s you having a baby in the future with a man that looked like me. A child with a man that is the opposite of me. It’s the spiced plums you make. It’s the WitchFinder on horseback under an English rain, an English Oak tree and shuttered windows in the village below. It’s the nine bar gate. Lizards behind every face you see that is involved with you and me. Tubes and dripping blood and the platitudes of Nurses who can overpower your weakened state and throw you back into bed. It’s the arms that press and hold you down as the Pethidine kicks up a fuss and you freak and accuse. It’s the Prison we build ourselves and it’s the final joke, the giggle and the wiggle of your arse in that dress, as you look back and laugh and we dance into the night, till our feet hurt and the jazz is dead and quiet.

The noise and annoyance are just that. Minor things really and there is a spot of my seed on your lip and you lick it off and laugh as you taste it and zip the finality up and the curtain gently closes and it’s back to the same old, the rampant pace moulders and rots and the film blares it’s start again. The intermission is just that. The between spaces, the endless faces that press and are apparent. The glances and the stances of the great show rumbles on and the needles are always replaces and the tubes are taped harder and fastened. 

On the Dam he walks and will walk for an eternity glancing often at the metaphysical geometries on each of the six peaks as they turn and shine their light as diamonds onto the forest below. But he will never remember her. Never taste again the sins she had to show him. The light twists and tumbles from each cell and is taken up by the black orb above and the information flows are not hindered by magic. Never will be. They are kept safe for that beauty who will finally understand them. A process that has already been performed by this state. A process that will never be forgotten. But his foot kicks a piece of chalk that lay on the stone. It makes a line as it skitters across the cut rock. It forms a line which intersects another and he bends down to look he sees. Her upon the bed, her flesh glistens and she is lost again as she writhes in delights unknown to him and he looks at his fingers and they they are wet too, like her, and he tastes her now on his mouth and she digs her fingernails into her breasts and cries out. But he never understands. And on the mountain tops the geometries turn.



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