Asghar Abbas's Blog - Posts Tagged "finish-this"

Crìoch

….. and then there were these two, moving about unchecked, going around unclaimed, unbalanced. Unsure of their place in life, like stray images flickering from memories not yet conceived. Drifting onward unperturbed, this dyadic picture of words made up of clay that was very human, were two disparate worlds, these two, thrown as much into the ordained chaos as they were into each other’s arms, fitting rather well together, despite the randomness of all things.

They walked on whilst quietly disarming their progenitors, who quite hopelessly pointlessly were aspiring to be propagators. Stay with me now, don’t get lost in this wold of felled words. So let’s stay on the game trail and track them. These two idiots. All the reasons in all the worlds to be relentless, for there is plenty of their tangy spoor leading up to them. And these two? So convinced they were of their lives that were non-sequitur at best, so proud of their reality that was stale at best. On top of that, a reality that was so utterly, so disgustingly dependent on someone else’s amusement, hinging on something riskier, far frailer than a song of the sea; on the sanity of poets.

In spite of their complete lack of self-worth, a need for a voice that best remained silent, no world was ready for the shape of their sounds. Yet. They struggled on, they should’ve just forfeit. Losers, these two. Still, they went on brewing their brittle little end; in fact, they were rushing toward all their endings. Already their end was wringing out from the de facto simplicity, that was the fact that they were alive. They existed so therefore they must not one day. After all the stars fail themselves too. But fools that they were, these two were still being charmed by their end that was predictable, and predictably they were being corrupted by their limited time. Their bodies weren’t a liquid mass of error but glass fashioned out of hourglass’s essence, and the sand? The sand was already running out. Fucking morons, they deserve their fate, disastrous as it were. Who told them they could go against it but now even the fabled Muses couldn’t change their fate. Who told them they could have more than what was being given to them. What the moon was allocating should have been enough for them and that bitch wasn’t generous, to begin with. Just look at all those lost wolves hunting for the Hunter’s Moon in the woods.

These two were the latticework of disaster, which should tell them something, stupid they are. The fatalism of their fate no longer nauseating them, nourished them instead.

Yeah, told you they were idiots. And I will hush up, shutting up now. I will hide from now on in the shadows of these two like the sun does skirts behind the moon, like ugliness lurking inside of love. I will be settling in for the Long Halloween. But worry not, I will remerge, unlike the Snow Moon, at the end of this sorry tale. I will come back in the end like a lost and long forgotten god that was never remembered in the first place.

And what were these two if not specks of inevitability trundling toward the churning gray waters? Fragmented pieces of the same paper, both of them were ripped from a single idea. But they were the worst kind of thieves, purloining the dust they were stealing from themselves. But at least they were honest thieves, they only stole from themselves, they were their only victims. In their haste, they merged then tumbled on like contents from a painting, slowly eddying out to the ocean. The lone painting was ruined split wide open like a cracked egg the yolk spilling out. The story in the painting leaking out, in that mix they were singular characters of two very separate minds.

Even I am getting a head rush from all this uber cuteness, just icky, just no. I am supposed to be this clever jongleur, but I am the one getting lost in the woods. Tonight the bloodied moon is not for me. Yeah, yeah I said I’d keep quiet but we don’t always get what we want, do we? So shut the hell up, I can still hear you. I never wanted to be the omniscient narrator for others; we as silkworms spinsters tricksters do get weary ourselves, experiencing what we will never experience for ourselves. Breathing for others, we are more alone that way. What’s the point in making someone else fly? Anyone can do that but not anyone can be us and we sure as Larry Brown ain’t like anyone else. We are just whining here, letting off steam, we are not rooks here, because, in the end, it’s worth being all alone just to write all this.

But to make others fly. Where is the fun in that? So let’s try this again. Let’s take it from the top, let us end before we can begin. There is no way out for them but these two victims of each other’s thoughts, addicts of their shared pleasure, knew a backdoor out of this garden designed to keep them safe. They needn’t eat an apple to earn the distinction of a plain and swift departure. Deluding and eluding the engineers of their extinction, they prettified the exit wound, squeezing their way out through the opening thus belaying their execution, just delaying the evitable thrust of the knife to their ruined temples. But still, there is a victory in the smallest of respites, solace in the smallest of lies.

Ah, fuck it, and Stanley Kubrick it. What’s one more take, hum?

So, here we go into the water again, go under it. So, we redo the dance. Let’s start this dance again.

He was out with her on their last night not because the blood moon had promised them a safe passage or that the stars had lined up to witness their fall. But because they owed it to the trust they had built like a stone tower to live in without any gnarled doubts. Their last walk wasn’t a commemoration of whatever that had gone between them during their papery lull between very real storms, or some kind of past they managed to share, but rather their walk of unshame was a bacchanal of sorts, of all sorts. In some small corner of his wind-up heart, his heart all wounded up but not broken, somewhere on the outer rims of his quaint mind, he knew he was taking her out because he hadn’t thanked her for last night and he couldn’t thank her for this night.

So meeting in the middle, he accosted her. They were out on the town in search for revels, for a basic good time in a place that for all they knew was the known world. Theirs was a celebratory dance, maybe a war dance, mayhaps a prayers for rains. One thing’s for sure the grounds they were walking on were hallowed. It’s just that it was harvest time but they were more than ripe for the reaping. How so? Well. They had with them sickles shiny with hopes. They were hoping their glinting sickles with dragon bone handles were sharp enough to cut through the wealth of their hosts’ thoughts, fan away from the fogs of their indulgences and end their situation that was a hostage. Hand in hand, footsteps in harmony they built their stone tower. Everything starts with a little bit of wanting and they knew what they wanted.

Now she didn’t have to let down her hair ever again, not even for him. If he wanted to go down there for some reason then he needn’t come back up again, it was that simple, that impossible. They built what they wanted to build. What they fashioned together exhausted the distance between them. Meanwhile distancing them from everything that had ever loved them. With just one stroke, they sundered themselves from everything else. In that loss, they were fucking free. Though they had a rather unpleasant task at hand; they aimed to become human at the very hour of their demise. Truly disfavorable this business. All this venom and there weren’t enough people to share it with equally. Besides, no one wanted to chug down this cranium juice. So juicy, so yum. Such life is a disgrace; toxicity should be drink gratefully.

They swayed, whipping back and forth, in gelling they become. Not one but themselves, together in their own individuality. The wind didn’t make them do it, no one was making them, but their hands slipped into each other’s, intertwining more than just fingers, but they trudged on. The boardwalk under their feet felt like it was crawling like it was offering resistance to their movements, to the momentum of their progress. When in actuality it was propelling them forward, away from their gaining gainsaying persecutors. The boardwalk wasn’t an impediment, it was helping them escape. This thing their succor was better than those who professed to be their allies. This boardwalk of crumbling bones was their friend.

And the Sun? The Sun really thought it was their friend, but it hadn’t quite mastered the inner working of an honest friendship. Their Sun punchdrunk on the sincerity of her promise become philosophical, it graduated from being erratic to being insane. It became a rogue, a scavenger, a mystic, a soothsayer; it became a naked priestess swaying in its own temple. Useless. Even now, on this bespeckled starry star-freckled night here blurring between the paper lines fading out of these fray pages, the Sun couldn’t wait for the morning to come so that it could gorge her face. It just wanted the morning bells to chime the fuck on, so it could rip her fucking face off. Sun would look at her as she looks at it. For in the wisteria tinge morns of morrows in the burrows of yesterday, when the wet dawn jettisons her from its womb and she lay there fresh and glistening in the rumpled bedcovers, tousled from sleep and raked by her ugly dreams. When the world first woke up, she is herself. In those purple mornings, she is most herself; the mornings become heartening because she’s part of that puzzle. Unending, upending, tangled in the warmed sheets, stretching, arching back, uncurling engaging in misplaced acts of lordosis bliss like a cat Gaimaning out of these rough pages, with grace intelligence, and intent, um subtle things like that. At dawn lying in bed, listening to the matins calling out only to her, in the mornings she is beautiful.

Sun no longer their friend was done playing games. It couldn’t wait any longer to look at her; behold her face and take shelter in the protective parasol of her shadows. Sun longed to gaze at her misshapen face broken from all her wants and desires. All that she wanted and desired broke her face. But what the Sun loved most about her was she always woke up right; most people don’t really get upright. And that she could suck the night into giving up and hide stolen ideas well, was just a bonus. So anyway, the doleful Sun wanted to snatch away all the night’s excuses, not so gently remove all the constraints. It wanted to tear apart the straightjacket moon had helped put it on it to hide all its counterfeit gold. It wanted to do away with the inky cloak wrapped around its shoulders.

Wanting to shake off the worn-out eiderdown it would uncloak itself. The Sun wanted to reach out now not later but now in the torn apart night to feel her breath warming the air, turning the night into day. The night would convert and the Sun would give back all that the night had given during the day. Kneading her breath with its slimy fingers, Sun would frost what came forth from her mouth, turning that into vermilion icicles freezing them right there in the skies. Her iced breath now frozen flakes hanging in the air, Sun would give leeway to the much hateful parhelions, letting them poach its territory. All for her. One look at her and yeah no wonder it was willing to share its space with those fickle sundogs.

All for her.
For her
To her.

But the echo of her arbitrary denials stuck somewhere between then and the now, felt like her paint-stained hands clawing at the open sky and but in actuality clutching his chest, her broken fingers digging into his blue shirt, her wobbly scent twisting the air around him, why must they grapple with whatever bleak reality there is left. He just thought she needed to stop sketching like a crazy person, possessed. I kinda agree with that idiot, but what neither of us knew, she felt like the only sane inmate of an asylum, without a nibbled pencil, a blank sketchpad in front of her, she is quite lost. For with these meager shades of darklings, she wanted to become the color commentator of her own life, infertile as it were. Although in a moment of weakness, how can I not be weak at this moment with her dreaming, I’ll concede that her bloodied heart still beating, pumping away emptily on the marble countertop right next to her sketchbook is really beautiful? Just, why is her charcoal pencil still in her hand? I want to take hold of moving hand, pin her wrist down to keep her from moving. I wanted to tell her to be still, for her sake as much as mine. I want to prevent her hand from jerking about on the pages, to help her contain her ink within her, to stop her from spilling fresh bouillon gooeyness onto these pages, her bloody heart was a bordello not for her images but her sketchbook. Whenever we can, we must contaminate good women’s choices.

But we were talking about the Sun, let’s not digress OK, that’s the quickest way to earn its wroth, its spiteful like that.
But that’s the kind of effect she had on the sun to make it revolt against its own nature. To make it want to capsize where there’s no water. Where all it had to do was float to be the kingmaker of everything and it chose her. What a fucking loser, right? I am right, right?

And what kinda effect she had on him? Well, let’s see. She always did end up letting him affect her instead, allowing him to smudge her across his pages, over and over again. Not sure why. Since he didn’t care about her abilities nor did he care that her superpowers were greater, better than his. He didn’t understand any of her sacrifices that were celestial, though there were no gods accepting them. Fuck all did he know about the flint behind her every action. What did it matter to him that she was rearranging everything inside of her, for him, or that she was quieting all the dark matter in her to make more room for him to occupy. So that she could become his castellan, a true gatekeeper of his castle. All that she put herself through was nought to him.

Everything that she did do for him was eclipsed by her unapologetic love for the mechanism of his hocked heart.
Of her face and her mask. Unlike his former drinking buddy, he wasn’t interested in her face at all, fawn and dewed at dawn that unwrapped her. If he laid his eyes upon her face, her countenance shattering from all his longings, upon his gaze. Even a glance at her face non-ugly, she’d heave up all her secrets, give them all to him open-handedly. Then the carcass of her mystery wouldn’t have anything left to chew on. See, he wanted to look at those parts of her anatomy that were still elegiacal and he wanted to gnaw on those parts.

Despite what the wind had designed for them, in spite of its schemes, they were still holding hands. Their fingers entwined, their thoughts weaving in and out around them. They didn’t let go of each other, hands remained tightly clasped. They walked on trying to get off from the boardwalk. The sea nearby was swollen with a hunger for their world, famished waiting, breathing heavily, thinking of them licking its chops, getting ready, forks and knives in hand. But they moved on, the city watched them move. The city watched them, their cloaks astir in pursuit of their freedom, their mantle in a certain light lemon colored, rippling in their wake, chasing their happiness that was illicit because it was exclusive, um not sure who is stupider.

Almost running, almost existing, hand in hand they dollop their way through the throng of the crowd made up of atrophic masses, or was it the other way around. They, the misfigured ones in this simple equation. They pushed through the people made suddenly real by their touch, jostling others they went past. Buildings parallel to them followed their progress their two-person procession, the glass of windows snickering behind their backs. The windows of the buildings glared at them like they knew where they were headed. Everybody in their path, all the folks their lore, all the humanity gathered around them not watching them were just fueling their need to be alone with each other.

Everyone there was throwing an accelerant to their urge for solitude, lobbing at them Molotov bombs made from just their opinion and indifference, dousing them with their scorn for good measure. They trudged on regardless but the sky was irked with them too, that they made the sea want them and the sands craved them. Plus, the City Watching Them was fixing to seize their happiness, immoral and legal.

The space between them, grudgeless now, that disinterested distance was disappearing like planets in full retreat. The most loyalists yet frailest of heavenly bodies, retrograding but giving back, not taking anything this time. Words recovering, returning, like a dark night coming back full force, nothing forced anymore, it was like an easy friendship, just there. Natural and organic. Until it wasn’t. Butt. The invisible cord linking them, that frayed tassel forgotten by the gods and the cause of much discord among the few remaining stars, that chainlink between them, was rendering them even more inseparable. What is becoming, growing within them, that islet what they have is really hard to write about. Not because it makes them happy, which it does thinking it’s enough, it is not. Not because it gives them strength, gives heart to their dying struggle enliven their cause, just barely saving it from being lost. And not because it’s grotesque and it’s most certainly is that, their love is fucking ugly. What’s between them is hard to pin down and harder to translate because it didn’t exist with real people. That kind of stale love. But being written down it was, with electronic ink no less, in that fickle ink. What they held was being tattooed into the pages that were somewhere in the clouds, on paper that was as feelable as the air around them as tangible, it was being written on the skin of their lies. It was also wrong to write that down mostly because she smelled like freshly painted graffiti on the walls of his mind. See, I said mind not heart. Do you really see? I could have but didn’t. Pretty smug about their muted kindness their bloated consent making them smug. Yeah, their smugness is irritating me too. What really gets my goat, in fact, what has gotten the entire Animal Farm, is that their precious golden forged inscribed consent was something that was foisted on them.

Now it has mutated and now it was making them more self-aware but wasn’t part of the plan. The fact that they didn’t exist outside the dreams of dead trees and the songs of deader writers made their bastard happiness even more infuriating. The real risk is asking someone real to want them back, but what the fuck is real anyway, what these two fuckin’ losers had was more real than they were. But. They were no longer telling a story that’ll end up with strangled rabbits and dead dreams.

Of what they were wearing
He was dressed in a cloth of black, just a tunic and breeches, no shoes. Yes, earlier I had said he was in a blue shirt. I changed my mind, while not changing the story, what of it? So yeah, he was in a black shirt, wait he had shoes because he’s gonna have to take them off later in this story. A rough leather belt around his waist that she kept brushing her fingers against, its texture reminded her of her colors. Though why she needed colors she didn’t know. A leather belt around his waist studded with gemstones and encrusted with her prayers for him. All the dreams she has yet to weep for him, all the songs still unsung, her songs always had him sad until now. She was in um, she was wearing a black shirt made from the discarded part of the oldest galaxies, her buttoned-up shirt was sewn from the very fabric of the black hole. She was wearing scat anything else, not even a kirtle! Lonely moonbeams slithered down her fat thighs as she swished beside him. Their shadows splashing on the facades of the buildings as they hurried past those buildings, those shadows undulating after them like serpents. But they didn’t need a forbidden fruit to rid them of their clothes, looking at her windswept shirt, he wanted her in that shirt and out of it as well, she too wanted what he didn't want-

And. If you are waiting for some kind of an ending here, then you’ll be waiting a long time, a long long time. You might as well settle in and buckle up. To that end will take a long time coming. See, I told you I’d be back in the end at the end. Do you see? It’s about a pen and an inkwell. It’s about words. Not these but other words. See, when the inkblot gods get drunk and are kind to me, new wordlings happen –sometimes. But what those gods did to me was wrong. Glancing around here, I couldn’t help feeling swindled. They took all that away and gave me her instead? Though to be unfair, it was a fair trade but what kind of barter is that? Truly, what did I give, what did I lose, really? I never needed her to dream; she was just a dream I was having. Now I can’t even find her in my nightmares. And she used to share her lovely nightmares with me, she used to tell me nothing and everything. I might be a flâneur by default. Maybe I am a fabulist? Maybe. And maybe I’ll finish this someday. One Day. Maybe. But those two? Nameless losers but joyous, enjoying their joy despite not even being written out of their own story? Both of them, two of them, fuck them both, fuck the two of them. Maybe I will finish this anyway. But if you are drowning, sinking in water, floundering badly, and if you are waiting for that particular wet peripeteia, I wouldn’t hold my breath.

Though.
Not the End. Never.