Sunday 21 September 2014

Crawl into the Traps that you set for yourself suggested the Father

Orange streetlamp light reflected in a rain puddle on an overcast morning (circa perhaps 10am).

Glum laddies and glum ladies piroutte with the utmost elegance, exhibiting an indelible faith in rainshowers. Most unfortunate.

Rodriguez crashing through unfathomable corridors, repeating his name. Emergencies in the blackness of night.

Exhibiting an hallucinogenic hologram of a psuedo-neighbour in various states of ire and confusion. Rapturous applause.

The symbolic father shifts its gaze downwards. Scenes of grey weather; shifting clouds accompanied by ominous synthesizer music.

Something is occurring.

Alan's Descent into the Sadness Garden was not without Precedent

When my lips become maroon perhaps my other limbs will stand a chance, the objective being erosion. The way things stand. Perhaps I have become prone. After all.

We feed on her majestic mist trails. Humbling confessions of weariness and ineptitude. Someone grins in our general direction, prophesying an ambiguous Edinburgh.

Slinking into sunsets. Feeding alien sunsets into historical simulations, the objective being to increase the probability of inaccuracy.

Wintry juice is maroon by default and my limbs are conveyed by horrific magnetic influences, as a matter of course.

"You actually wrote this pish?" he queries, incredulous, disdainful. "Aye," I murmur. My gestures, demeanor and tone of voice convey insurmountable lethargy.

(Fade out to overcast morning, ominous synthesizer tones).

Exploring the Deepest Reaches of the Sadness Garden

Wrapped in our lethargy quilts, my brother and I venture forth into the October day. My quilt smells like medicine, as does my balaclava, and my lips are encrusted with dried Marmite. We are tethered to the hoose. My brother carries his Ghostbusters' skateboard.
 
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