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The Solarium By Night
Pretty Poison Down the Garden Path (Miya and Foxglove) Lost in the Woods Theatricum Botanicum Stone Fox "The only people for me are the mad ones ... mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn....." - Jack Kerouac Gothic Gardening Canada: Poisonous Plants / Common Names HOME |
...what emerges from flames... and do you remember that bright smile that once was fortune's favor raining down blessings up on your brow in streamers of celestial gold do you remember the laughter like caramel thick and sweet with butter the heat of her blood rapid firing kisses and cinnamon smells the muted mahogany of her eyes and the light behind them oh she of the magical eyes the eyes that sparkle mischief with a light you cannot possibly comprehend who sees what others may not see and dazzles from within and the reflection of your eyes in hers do you remember in vague moments of sobriety the warmth of a hand pressed to your chest birdlike and delicate living for the rhythm of your heartbeat legs perfectly fitted to one another while outside the screams of sirens and inside the darkness and wireless dreams and warmth and safety and never alone do you remember the curve of her thigh as she lay sleeping you remember when she wasn't there surely the bleakness of a cold bed and stone dead silence do you Stone Fox
Madness, madness everywhere... and not a drop to savor... it's all spilled out, you see, onto the ivory rounds of her cheeks, spilled in the streaks of liquid amethyst that mingle with her tears... Her dementia is not all fun and games... sometimes, when the moon is ripe and the planets are out of alignment, and when the voices inside scream a little too loudly, and the shadows - those insidious shadows - loom over her shoulder like serpents about to strike... in those moments, the laughter in her eyes goes black, and even rose-colored glasses couldn't save her... She stands at the back wall of the courtyard, under the glow of a mellow spring moon, lifted onto slippered toes by the tension threaded through her limbs, holding her thighs taut, her feet planted at shoulder's width apart... The feather down at her collar and cuffs wafts aimlessly with the breeze, but it is the only thing aimless in this picture... Her too-sweet features are knotted and grim, a ghastly caricature of innocence gone wrong, and clutched in one gloved hand is a broken-off piece of charcoal... Scribbled on the grey brick wall, barely decipherable through the jagged lines and scrawls rife with pressure, are the only words that might give some clue to the unbearable strain and poison boiling from the inside out...
Gutted °~°~~°~° …another night, another setting, another summer's kiss to fire the Bedlam in Foxglove's wintry smile… and this time she is sprawled on her belly across the dull grey stone of the courtyard path, among the stately arches and timeless statuary… rendering all that classical scenery mindless with the babble falling from her hands… …her fingertips twitch as she clutches the stub of charcoal, and she chews her lip in earnest concentration, less at the words (they spill themselves, with no help from her), more at the effort required to keep the crayon steady… …Time has come to this, stopped dead on parted lips... mute, frozen, bloodless and unyielding... the phantoms that haunt me now have long since had their price, but they linger to drive the needle through my mouth, round and round, sewing my words shut with twine like fine barbed wire... the scars are monstrous, great black ravines, jagged crayon lines, as though a child had been turned loose with a razor... to paint these atrocities with the brush of innocent dementia, masterpieces of horror in my blood awash... rough lines, those lines, hacked and slashed and carved with no finesse... I always knew you could be petty, always knew you could be cruel, always knew you thought the world was just for you... the tears are yours as well... keep them as a trophy... let me wash your feet in them, let me kneel to bathe you... they were right... they... they... they... and it never stops and never stops and never stops...
°~°~~°~°
She sits on the back portico of the estate house, atop a broad stone staircase that overlooks the maze and the sea-blue vista beyond. Dawn has come, and the sun is still barely eclipsed by that horizon line… the birds have begun a rousing chorus, far too cheery to be any less than annoying even on the brightest of days, but especially today, when the air is heavy with ocean mist, littered with salt and seaweed perfume. Aside from the birds, and the faint whisper of waves lapping against the shore in the distance, there's hardly a sound, hardly anything at all to drown out her murmuring… her lips move, and her eyes are filled with quiet reason, but the sounds that come out resemble only the random placement of consonants and vowels, emphasized with the occasional lilt that would indicate what she's saying makes sense, at least to her… Reason, that elusive prize, would seem to have come to her at last, if one were to judge by her expression alone… but her eyes are veiled by loose wisps of purple silk, escaped from the braid and straggling over her forehead, tangled at her temples… yes, one might think the proverbial light socket had had its way with her `do, only, well, the estate house is lit almost entirely with gas lamps… Dark circles, too, have gouged out a residence beneath her eyes… clearly, she hasn't slept all night, maybe not in days, maybe not in weeks, and maybe that's the reason for her apparent peace… The charcoal piece is worn almost to a nub, so that the lines produced as she dashes it against her arms and legs are thick, crude, like scars, marring the surface of the lavender suit with nonsense and gibberish symbols… but some of the lines form letters, and a few are lucid long enough to string into words… Her motions are by rote - her forearm sweeps up with the requisite showering of loose marabou, like dandelion fluff scattered to the air, then back down again in a graceful arc so that the crayon leaves its mark… ...it fills up my throat and stops my breath... makes ribbons of my flesh... this horror, mine... it finds the vein and injects the pain... turns blood to arsenic... this horror, mine... if I could spend but a single night... lost in the rapture of your absinthe smile... bells in the wind and the smell of fire... would it stop the gnashing teeth... this horror, mine And here she runs out of room. Virtually every inch of her suit is covered in cinder smudges - it can hardly be called lavender anymore. With a wistful sigh, she drops the charcoal to the top step. It rolls down, gaining momentum as it goes, enough to propel it faster and send it bouncing into the mouth of the maze at the bottom, where it disappears, swallowed by the thick grass there. For a long moment, she gazes down at her hand, admiring the streaks of black across her fingertips. Some of the soot from her pencil has worked its way into crevices in her rings - they will have to be cleaned. But not too soon. Suddenly, she gasps, and her lips part with surprise, as though she'd just been gored with a knife in the belly. She even doubles over a little, curling her arms around her knees and curling protectively into herself. The gasp ravels out into a whimper, the whimper to a childish mewling… Her eyes are lost, all the sense that was there a moment ago swallowed by whorling amethyst dementia… And she utters a single plea, the word barely loud enough for the wind to pick it up and carry it away… "Tino…" °~°~~°~°
Her clothes are in tatters, the last poem ripped away, though fragments of words and sentences hang on in the strips of satin that remain - the lavender bandeau and bits of fluff clinging to a makeshift loin cloth… she is a savage doll, now, a jungle heathen in glamorous rags, and her tribal paint is charcoal, smudged from her fingertips across her cheeks.
She clings to a rock on the cliff top, overlooking the pounding surf at dusk, and barely visible in the dim light that remains (reflected from the water in slivers of lingering sunshine and hints of the blossoming moon), is a trail of words scrawled across the boulders behind her… whether or not he would come for her - her redeemer, her savior - remained to be seen / regardless, the lilies and orchids would always bloom wild along the shore / summer's end, the torrid dog days / a monarch clinging to the side of a tree, held there as though by magic / his wings lazy, swooping, falling into gentle sleep, opening, folding, sable and mandarin / to glance away, to turn back, / to find a scorch mark and a delicate, charred skeleton / summer heat has no mercy / and wages ceaseless war on the frail seven seasons passed, and still he had not come for her / and so she waited, deteriorating, in her crystal tower / silken curls and skin like cream / drying into straw and oatmeal / diamonds in her eyes so yellowed that even the midnight stars would not shine there / and down below, the ancient hoary frosts raped the land for seven seasons / seven cycles of seedlings crushed beneath the frozen earth / children born went straight off to war, to fight the legions of the goblin king / and those left behind, cannibalized at the ice queen's leisure heart sore inside her rib cage / he had said that he would fight for her / see that her pedestal remained safe from teetering / but somewhere on the journey out to slay her dragons / did he decide she was not fit? / the task of fighting his own demons too damnably hard, / and she not worthy of the effort? / what deception has taken our noble redeemer / savior beloved cherished treasured / fool / so far from his course? / and leaves her to wither in a crystal tower / to grow old, to fade from bloom / to wonder why he found her wanting / to wonder why his promises are plaster dust now / too afraid to leave, for fear of tumbling down the steps empty eyes trained on a mountain pass / skeletal fingers resting on a stone sill / chafed by bitter winds and bloodless / and if he has not come for her - her redeemer, her beloved / (was she not deserving? was she not worth fighting for?) / - then they rest there still. °~°~ foxglove ~°~° I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked... angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night ("Howl"/Allen GInsberg) |