Asghar Abbas's Blog - Posts Tagged "july-15"
Sharon Kay Penman
Instead of finishing this, I’ll just remember it. Something to do with the monsters, right? Maybe it's about just one Monster in particular. We’ll let everyone else decide which one. Who that monster be. Either way, that’s too many monsters. Though none of them are here, that’s one monster too many.
Or maybe I’ll just take some time off, kick back a little bit, calm down some, chill, and have a manic night out. Letting all those ghosts think of me ought to do it, should do it; help me relax that is. They wouldn’t let me drink alone anyway, let alone unwind without them. They can't touch me, yet they know how to unknot something loose in me. They can feel me even if they can't see me.
You know what though, it’s so funny. I keep running to myself. In circles too. I look around here and all that is here. Come on, look around yourself. This is my life now? To oscillate between bitter sadness and ruinous anger.
Yeah, I don’t think so, either.
I wouldn’t.
Be reasonable please, not all has to do with he-
Well, will you look at that. Lookit here. Look at her. Storms she’s brewing secretly, would she pour them in her cracked pot? Storms did provide. Let me Mario Puzo this. OK, done. Couch in his den was comfortable.
She likes to read the journals of Sylvia Plath, still she wouldn’t let go of the moon. She knows better, she does. But. I guess. There’s. Too much wolf in her.
What a civilian she is in her immediate surroundings, squarely placed there by happenstance, but not quite. I mean, look at her skinning that dead black cat, not bad for a rookie. What? At least it’s dead. She’s stirring the pot now. I am cooking something, she says unnecessarily, it’s a little red lung.
We watch her, I don’t even know who the other person is, it’s just me, don't know why I said we, there's barely me here. But indeed we watch her put the black gunk in her mouth, watch her chew the liquorice substance thoroughly, her mouth glistening red. In another take, looking at her again, it looks like glowworms, half forgotten, are hanging out of her open mouth.
She's no artisanal fisherman to say the least, but look at her casting perfect lines. You want me to spell it out for you, lemme, spell it out then; for a nonstarter, she’s doing a rather decent job of churning out those spells, as is proper.
She'd often wonder who is there to hear her sing. We're here. Listening to her song, she keeps repeating my name through it though. Like that charm would work. Such a novice. Endless her, there is no end to her. Of her. For her. Okay, I am out. Fy Nghariad? Oh, fuck you too. But thank you. I miss tea she didn’t make there. But yeah, she’s definitely not worth her happiness, not worth haunting, her happiness is no reason to keep her. Her weight is a burden. Entire weight of Water is in her voice, and all my memories are collapsing under it. Go away. It's too deep.
I must wake up from this, before I pick up this bullet from the ground. Though there is no false valentine here. But there is no point in looking for better Fridays now. She’s up there in the verdant mountains, I can't get to her. She won't come back. She did love those alpine forests more than any dwellings that would have her. So I’ll just look for the newer Black Rabbit Halls to roam around.
In my own corner of the night, whatever comfort I can get, I'll find solace in my own blackened thoughts that do not own me.
Or maybe I’ll just take some time off, kick back a little bit, calm down some, chill, and have a manic night out. Letting all those ghosts think of me ought to do it, should do it; help me relax that is. They wouldn’t let me drink alone anyway, let alone unwind without them. They can't touch me, yet they know how to unknot something loose in me. They can feel me even if they can't see me.
You know what though, it’s so funny. I keep running to myself. In circles too. I look around here and all that is here. Come on, look around yourself. This is my life now? To oscillate between bitter sadness and ruinous anger.
Yeah, I don’t think so, either.
I wouldn’t.
Be reasonable please, not all has to do with he-
Well, will you look at that. Lookit here. Look at her. Storms she’s brewing secretly, would she pour them in her cracked pot? Storms did provide. Let me Mario Puzo this. OK, done. Couch in his den was comfortable.
She likes to read the journals of Sylvia Plath, still she wouldn’t let go of the moon. She knows better, she does. But. I guess. There’s. Too much wolf in her.
What a civilian she is in her immediate surroundings, squarely placed there by happenstance, but not quite. I mean, look at her skinning that dead black cat, not bad for a rookie. What? At least it’s dead. She’s stirring the pot now. I am cooking something, she says unnecessarily, it’s a little red lung.
We watch her, I don’t even know who the other person is, it’s just me, don't know why I said we, there's barely me here. But indeed we watch her put the black gunk in her mouth, watch her chew the liquorice substance thoroughly, her mouth glistening red. In another take, looking at her again, it looks like glowworms, half forgotten, are hanging out of her open mouth.
She's no artisanal fisherman to say the least, but look at her casting perfect lines. You want me to spell it out for you, lemme, spell it out then; for a nonstarter, she’s doing a rather decent job of churning out those spells, as is proper.
She'd often wonder who is there to hear her sing. We're here. Listening to her song, she keeps repeating my name through it though. Like that charm would work. Such a novice. Endless her, there is no end to her. Of her. For her. Okay, I am out. Fy Nghariad? Oh, fuck you too. But thank you. I miss tea she didn’t make there. But yeah, she’s definitely not worth her happiness, not worth haunting, her happiness is no reason to keep her. Her weight is a burden. Entire weight of Water is in her voice, and all my memories are collapsing under it. Go away. It's too deep.
I must wake up from this, before I pick up this bullet from the ground. Though there is no false valentine here. But there is no point in looking for better Fridays now. She’s up there in the verdant mountains, I can't get to her. She won't come back. She did love those alpine forests more than any dwellings that would have her. So I’ll just look for the newer Black Rabbit Halls to roam around.
In my own corner of the night, whatever comfort I can get, I'll find solace in my own blackened thoughts that do not own me.
