Asghar Abbas's Blog - Posts Tagged "snow"
No more Teapots in Wonderland and Dead Rabbits.
I'm getting tea, don't you dare move an inch. When I come back, I want at least one of your thoughts, fresh and warm from your mind, made happy with the signature of your mouth. Okay, tea! Though usually, you have a better effect on me, you're so much a stronger drink, a blend of wonders. So don't move your pretty butt, stay put. But I wanna know a secret, you must give it to me OK? Share it with me. I'll stash it away, pocket it along with all the others.
I brew my tea from what's left of your luminous particles hanging in the air, just loitering there, and pour it into my black Celtic-themed mug from oh nine like you pour your entire existence into my skull.
In the polished hallway dull again, on my way en route routed to where you are, rooted and waiting, licking your chops. All of sudden, I'm teetering hobbling on one foot then the other, trying to balance my steaming mug hoping to prevent the tea from sloshing onto my bare feet. I stagger, gasping for clean air. I am flooded with a smell of pith that oddly reminds me of your smooth skin awaiting me like an ole lost and forgotten Braille manuscript, like a simplified chilled copy of Hypnerotomachia Poliphili waiting for my pleasure. That scent pummels me to the linoleum floor, leaving me winded and aged.
I unbent and hop around a little bit as if something was remembering me, as opposed to my remembering something suddenly. I stand there mouth agape, face contorting as your remaining airborne particles crumbles away. Now I'm hesitant, very much like a chiaroscurist shadow between your glowing seas and hitched bræths. Hey, at least I didn't use the word incandescent haha.
I am missing something now but I don't know what that is. Disconsonant words start exploding within me like memory exposing something that shines right back at me. Whispering in my chest, sibilant and incessant; these words are the Force that's awakening right now. Words stirring like moths then erupting scattering away.
Suddenly or maybe not so suddenly, the way back leading up to you, the well-trodden, weary path unfurling toward the TV-less living room, the road with you at the end of it doesn't seem all that appealing, appetizing, agreeable, or appeasing anymore. Your shimmering lazy confidence no longer assuaging me. You can keep your face on, I'm not interested in your mask now. I'm not gonna cross the Rubicon again for you, lady. You're a preacher no more, we can't fix this. I'm not old anymore.
Pivoting hard in the middle of the middle of the hallway, I turn turning my coat, even though I'm not wearing my black leather overcoat. Would be nice if I were in just that. Actually, on second thought scratch that. It wouldn't be nice at all, for I would stay.
Changing direction I turn around, turning away from you, clutching my hot mug of coffee. Yes, I turned tea into coffee. I can do that, one of my many useless gifts. Moving away from you, I purchase distance with my every stride. The opposite side welcoming me openly.
As I walk away the separation between us yawned further and further, and further away I go. I'm no longer choking on fevered urgency. I don't feel the need that if I didn't continue our kiss I wouldn't be here.
It's easy telling you I love you and have you all agog and gobbling me in two seconds flat. For the most part, I do mean it, or wait, was that for the most part, I don't even mean it. I can never tell the difference. So easy. There was a time when I would have thrown away those phials filled with dark amber liquid, potions to make you mine, and made you mine anyway. But I'm too old now and you are too wizened yet afresh wick eager to be licked and lit like the rain lights you up. There is still so much that I want to surprise you with, so much that I want to show you still, still want to fan the flames and feed that urge that makes you think I'm yours, tied on spit turning slowly, when the truth is I kinda need you so that I can remain fae, I need you to still believe in magic. I know it's a lot asking you to come to live within my head with me, and that is the need I don't need. It is the need that is burning me. I do love you, I do, but not right now. Not tonight.
And who are you? What are you anyway? You've been far too generous upon yourself; you went and extenuated yourself. The moment, the very moment I tell you that you are real, that you don't have to go down the rabbit hole, you became vague. But that's okay, it's fine by me. You were always a sillage of an idea rather than flesh and bones anyway.
I never wanted you in the first place, now that I need you I must cut you off, shut you out. Stab you right below your heart somewhere between your ribs, twist the bone-hilt knife, break and leave its blade in you, a kinder reminiscent of things I left inside you. I wouldn't want to know about you. Your feet are not cold but frozen and I want to thaw them but naw.
Aches or not, when I leave you, and I will, I am, I won't be saddened about it, but gladden as I make my exit.
Now I really wish I had my leather coat, it's really cold outside, the kind of cold that leaves bite marks on your body. I am naked in the snow and punching a dime-sized hole in the sky only a swollen moon rushes to cover me.
Te reto a que me dejes , por favor no lo hago . Permanecer . No vaya . Ven conmigo bebé .
I brew my tea from what's left of your luminous particles hanging in the air, just loitering there, and pour it into my black Celtic-themed mug from oh nine like you pour your entire existence into my skull.
In the polished hallway dull again, on my way en route routed to where you are, rooted and waiting, licking your chops. All of sudden, I'm teetering hobbling on one foot then the other, trying to balance my steaming mug hoping to prevent the tea from sloshing onto my bare feet. I stagger, gasping for clean air. I am flooded with a smell of pith that oddly reminds me of your smooth skin awaiting me like an ole lost and forgotten Braille manuscript, like a simplified chilled copy of Hypnerotomachia Poliphili waiting for my pleasure. That scent pummels me to the linoleum floor, leaving me winded and aged.
I unbent and hop around a little bit as if something was remembering me, as opposed to my remembering something suddenly. I stand there mouth agape, face contorting as your remaining airborne particles crumbles away. Now I'm hesitant, very much like a chiaroscurist shadow between your glowing seas and hitched bræths. Hey, at least I didn't use the word incandescent haha.
I am missing something now but I don't know what that is. Disconsonant words start exploding within me like memory exposing something that shines right back at me. Whispering in my chest, sibilant and incessant; these words are the Force that's awakening right now. Words stirring like moths then erupting scattering away.
Suddenly or maybe not so suddenly, the way back leading up to you, the well-trodden, weary path unfurling toward the TV-less living room, the road with you at the end of it doesn't seem all that appealing, appetizing, agreeable, or appeasing anymore. Your shimmering lazy confidence no longer assuaging me. You can keep your face on, I'm not interested in your mask now. I'm not gonna cross the Rubicon again for you, lady. You're a preacher no more, we can't fix this. I'm not old anymore.
Pivoting hard in the middle of the middle of the hallway, I turn turning my coat, even though I'm not wearing my black leather overcoat. Would be nice if I were in just that. Actually, on second thought scratch that. It wouldn't be nice at all, for I would stay.
Changing direction I turn around, turning away from you, clutching my hot mug of coffee. Yes, I turned tea into coffee. I can do that, one of my many useless gifts. Moving away from you, I purchase distance with my every stride. The opposite side welcoming me openly.
As I walk away the separation between us yawned further and further, and further away I go. I'm no longer choking on fevered urgency. I don't feel the need that if I didn't continue our kiss I wouldn't be here.
It's easy telling you I love you and have you all agog and gobbling me in two seconds flat. For the most part, I do mean it, or wait, was that for the most part, I don't even mean it. I can never tell the difference. So easy. There was a time when I would have thrown away those phials filled with dark amber liquid, potions to make you mine, and made you mine anyway. But I'm too old now and you are too wizened yet afresh wick eager to be licked and lit like the rain lights you up. There is still so much that I want to surprise you with, so much that I want to show you still, still want to fan the flames and feed that urge that makes you think I'm yours, tied on spit turning slowly, when the truth is I kinda need you so that I can remain fae, I need you to still believe in magic. I know it's a lot asking you to come to live within my head with me, and that is the need I don't need. It is the need that is burning me. I do love you, I do, but not right now. Not tonight.
And who are you? What are you anyway? You've been far too generous upon yourself; you went and extenuated yourself. The moment, the very moment I tell you that you are real, that you don't have to go down the rabbit hole, you became vague. But that's okay, it's fine by me. You were always a sillage of an idea rather than flesh and bones anyway.
I never wanted you in the first place, now that I need you I must cut you off, shut you out. Stab you right below your heart somewhere between your ribs, twist the bone-hilt knife, break and leave its blade in you, a kinder reminiscent of things I left inside you. I wouldn't want to know about you. Your feet are not cold but frozen and I want to thaw them but naw.
Aches or not, when I leave you, and I will, I am, I won't be saddened about it, but gladden as I make my exit.
Now I really wish I had my leather coat, it's really cold outside, the kind of cold that leaves bite marks on your body. I am naked in the snow and punching a dime-sized hole in the sky only a swollen moon rushes to cover me.
Te reto a que me dejes , por favor no lo hago . Permanecer . No vaya . Ven conmigo bebé .
Aisling Franciosi
So many songs have gone into building it up. Too many. Much and more has been taken from the sea into making this. Too much spume. It's corpulent, capricious, but not really affluent. Looking around, it's still painful, but it doesn't hurt as much. It's at this moment, she'd turn to me and say. The Dead are only looking to make you deader and keep you dead too. And you have to go on living. So become a woman. Be a woman. And live. Live. Live. Live. Then die. So let's finish this for the sake of that story and find the bloodmoon this September too. But remember, keep in mind, that the Story in this Song is not what the song is all about.
Shipless
Subterfuge he wasn’t sure about
but he couldn’t see
of that
of monsters and men
he was sure of
He cannot see the colors now
anymore
he has lost them all
Every little thing is dull, hull cracked and leaking filling us up, all the remaining colors are drab now
He can't touch them anymore, this light false and real, he can't swallow it now, what he is rubbing between the index finger and his thumb, it's not colors, what is it, fossils do not lie
It is so chilled now, this dying star, he is, die a little faster now
sun and its numinous reach, ruinous now, each and every finger, freezing
frozen in nothingness, into nothing
Falling on the olden me, that is still not there, straying beside the copacetic copses, this stale sunlight falls on my skin, stirring nothing anew, sunlight falling on me, not stirring the skin
It's so cold now
Apricity is all gone now
Truly
All the sun-dogs are dead
There is fire
There's a fire
But no heat
Son, even the sun, doesn't feel its own warmth
hanging in this abeyance, deliriously, deliciously,
in a moment of her
in this absence
the sun cannot warm himself
the library is closed
all the words
written and forgotten
nothing is forbidden
still nothing there is that I need
The last time I did this
With
Her moribund lips
It was still winter
Winter sun has finally died
But even in all this madness, I know this is March
It's not about dying, but being reborn though not born again, never. We are not perishing, but burning together, we are coming back again.
There is still a way out of this misshapen mesa
I hope
there's hope still
Everything is dead but
For
All dead things are about new beginnings
Dead reminds us of fresher starts
Freshening our mouths in Fresno of our minds
Our collective shame not shaming us
There is still a way out of here
All the way
Outta here
So there is a sliver of a chance here
To toil in the soil
In the dirt
And be free
Of earth and joyless earthen delights
For flowers of the dead
And dead flowers have a presence
And weight
That you can feel even underwater
and under the water, you are home
And like, my stranger, who is familiar and my person, favorite, like my familiar stranger, who is strangely familiar and familiarly strange, of strange beauty, said, trick or treat whilst hiding behind her smile, burrowing inside her borrowed lie.
But
It is just like how the girl with the glass feet told me, it’s not about the sun, or the sun dying in the winter. It's not about death at all. It's about the dearth of words. It's about words. So find some of them, please, animate some of this. Inanimate objects await us. So write. Feel.
So that's where we are in the spectacular of now here in March
But February? That was another story. What was it about? The last month of February was snowy and moony. This February had its Snow Moon. Where it was cold, not cold enough. Under the pewter skies, the moonbeams were cool and balmy, soothing, the moonlight calming me down and down for everything.
Month of February. What was it? I'll tell you.
February was about mermaids
Trying to find them
Keeping them
In the tub
Filleting them
Blinding them
Denying them
Making them up
In their own heads
Resting in wombs, revoke them
February was about burying the hatchet
Into broken skulls
even more so
it was for
Burying the songs
- the dunes cold
In the sands
- the sandworts colder still
While all the remaining lies remain the same.
The thing is, here’s the thing
Here I am for another story
looking for it
I am here for it
A Story.
but he couldn’t see
of that
of monsters and men
he was sure of
He cannot see the colors now
anymore
he has lost them all
Every little thing is dull, hull cracked and leaking filling us up, all the remaining colors are drab now
He can't touch them anymore, this light false and real, he can't swallow it now, what he is rubbing between the index finger and his thumb, it's not colors, what is it, fossils do not lie
It is so chilled now, this dying star, he is, die a little faster now
sun and its numinous reach, ruinous now, each and every finger, freezing
frozen in nothingness, into nothing
Falling on the olden me, that is still not there, straying beside the copacetic copses, this stale sunlight falls on my skin, stirring nothing anew, sunlight falling on me, not stirring the skin
It's so cold now
Apricity is all gone now
Truly
All the sun-dogs are dead
There is fire
There's a fire
But no heat
Son, even the sun, doesn't feel its own warmth
hanging in this abeyance, deliriously, deliciously,
in a moment of her
in this absence
the sun cannot warm himself
the library is closed
all the words
written and forgotten
nothing is forbidden
still nothing there is that I need
The last time I did this
With
Her moribund lips
It was still winter
Winter sun has finally died
But even in all this madness, I know this is March
It's not about dying, but being reborn though not born again, never. We are not perishing, but burning together, we are coming back again.
There is still a way out of this misshapen mesa
I hope
there's hope still
Everything is dead but
For
All dead things are about new beginnings
Dead reminds us of fresher starts
Freshening our mouths in Fresno of our minds
Our collective shame not shaming us
There is still a way out of here
All the way
Outta here
So there is a sliver of a chance here
To toil in the soil
In the dirt
And be free
Of earth and joyless earthen delights
For flowers of the dead
And dead flowers have a presence
And weight
That you can feel even underwater
and under the water, you are home
And like, my stranger, who is familiar and my person, favorite, like my familiar stranger, who is strangely familiar and familiarly strange, of strange beauty, said, trick or treat whilst hiding behind her smile, burrowing inside her borrowed lie.
But
It is just like how the girl with the glass feet told me, it’s not about the sun, or the sun dying in the winter. It's not about death at all. It's about the dearth of words. It's about words. So find some of them, please, animate some of this. Inanimate objects await us. So write. Feel.
So that's where we are in the spectacular of now here in March
But February? That was another story. What was it about? The last month of February was snowy and moony. This February had its Snow Moon. Where it was cold, not cold enough. Under the pewter skies, the moonbeams were cool and balmy, soothing, the moonlight calming me down and down for everything.
Month of February. What was it? I'll tell you.
February was about mermaids
Trying to find them
Keeping them
In the tub
Filleting them
Blinding them
Denying them
Making them up
In their own heads
Resting in wombs, revoke them
February was about burying the hatchet
Into broken skulls
even more so
it was for
Burying the songs
- the dunes cold
In the sands
- the sandworts colder still
While all the remaining lies remain the same.
The thing is, here’s the thing
Here I am for another story
looking for it
I am here for it
A Story.
