Post by jj0hn on Sept 26, 2006 7:12:35 GMT -5
Hello, this is my first post here, if anyone has the time I'd appreciate any feedback you might be able to give.
Thnaks,
Joseph John
- Red -
Waking isn’t easy, the sun pricks at my forehead and teasing until my eyes and the window are open, the blinds tapping against the frame with the breeze, warm air swamping my body, and my mind fogged. I wake and I am lost to something, all the indeterminable codes and the moral certitude converged, distinct, and hang this morning somewhere just below the shoulder, close to the spine. I reach for the glass by the bedside, on the floor, and drink then I lift myself up. The inside of my mouth is flaked sharply and above the larynx the hard edges of sand to the ant’s foot, the walls are lined like a mountain trail.
Across the bows, across the bows. The lapel of my shirt, hung on the corner of the bedroom door, is crossed and knotted like a broken window pane, and I cross to the desk where the mirror is lying disturbed and I turn it upright and stare at myself for a minute because there must be a minute to spend if I can send myself away for a minute or two I could think about every other thing, if I could forget myself in waters as clear as glass. I stand still. Truths come together with the force of crashing bulls and where the stronger stands intact the contradictions lie, scattered and torn, the fissures of the flesh and the cauterising heat, the bloodless defeat. I turn from the mirror and leave, passing the bedroom door there is an unfamiliar sound from outside like a bird singing but there are things I can’t define and some troubles I will defer when the choice is my own, and this morning there is some tangible centrality of feeling, a lingering terrorised hope, extinguished finally, and the feeling is that above all others it is this morning to which I belong. In the kitchen the tap is running fast and I switch it off, the light from the kitchen window is glaring in the steel, cold and clean.
There is a creak of David’s door comes from across the hall, and I turn as he stands in the doorway and says “this morning is a gift to you for god’s sake, you must certainly be lucky. I missed it, you know, should I be sorry for it then?” I don’t smile and pass him slowly, and I sit down and lift the newspaper. David sits opposite from me and I look up from the newspaper briefly, but there is nothing to give away, my thoughts are my own and they’ll stay mine I know, to my peace. David says “well that’s fine with me you know I never like to think about fate when it comes to you it just doesn’t seem to do such a good job as with other people.”
David gets to his feet and walks out of the room and into the hall towards his bedroom, and I hear the door open then he stops, pauses for a second, and I feel dragged by my stomach to that spot, what David is looking at is something of my own I’m sure but the hot shimmering morning conspires and stands within my mind as opaque as the wall between us. “what’s that, Christian, over there on the floor? what is it, is it hair?” I come to the open doorway. In the corner of the hall there is a clump of wiry brown hair, a fistful. “whose hair is that, Christian?” David is staring at me. I stare back, and my stomach is alive, the pit of a waterfall with the crashing and churning of violent fears though my mind is fogged and dull. I stare back, my eyes are blank and his are wild then I walk to the hair, stare down at it and my stomach lurches up and then I place my hand on the bathroom door and pull at it slowly. David is silent at my back, over my shoulder, and the door comes open and it is there on the white tiles, the morning lying still, the lumpen form heavy on the bathroom floor, soaked and twisted, the unnatural conjunction of parts, the clear shards in the red and the silence, peaceful and grotesque.
www.joseph-john.blogspot.com
Thnaks,
Joseph John
- Red -
Waking isn’t easy, the sun pricks at my forehead and teasing until my eyes and the window are open, the blinds tapping against the frame with the breeze, warm air swamping my body, and my mind fogged. I wake and I am lost to something, all the indeterminable codes and the moral certitude converged, distinct, and hang this morning somewhere just below the shoulder, close to the spine. I reach for the glass by the bedside, on the floor, and drink then I lift myself up. The inside of my mouth is flaked sharply and above the larynx the hard edges of sand to the ant’s foot, the walls are lined like a mountain trail.
Across the bows, across the bows. The lapel of my shirt, hung on the corner of the bedroom door, is crossed and knotted like a broken window pane, and I cross to the desk where the mirror is lying disturbed and I turn it upright and stare at myself for a minute because there must be a minute to spend if I can send myself away for a minute or two I could think about every other thing, if I could forget myself in waters as clear as glass. I stand still. Truths come together with the force of crashing bulls and where the stronger stands intact the contradictions lie, scattered and torn, the fissures of the flesh and the cauterising heat, the bloodless defeat. I turn from the mirror and leave, passing the bedroom door there is an unfamiliar sound from outside like a bird singing but there are things I can’t define and some troubles I will defer when the choice is my own, and this morning there is some tangible centrality of feeling, a lingering terrorised hope, extinguished finally, and the feeling is that above all others it is this morning to which I belong. In the kitchen the tap is running fast and I switch it off, the light from the kitchen window is glaring in the steel, cold and clean.
There is a creak of David’s door comes from across the hall, and I turn as he stands in the doorway and says “this morning is a gift to you for god’s sake, you must certainly be lucky. I missed it, you know, should I be sorry for it then?” I don’t smile and pass him slowly, and I sit down and lift the newspaper. David sits opposite from me and I look up from the newspaper briefly, but there is nothing to give away, my thoughts are my own and they’ll stay mine I know, to my peace. David says “well that’s fine with me you know I never like to think about fate when it comes to you it just doesn’t seem to do such a good job as with other people.”
David gets to his feet and walks out of the room and into the hall towards his bedroom, and I hear the door open then he stops, pauses for a second, and I feel dragged by my stomach to that spot, what David is looking at is something of my own I’m sure but the hot shimmering morning conspires and stands within my mind as opaque as the wall between us. “what’s that, Christian, over there on the floor? what is it, is it hair?” I come to the open doorway. In the corner of the hall there is a clump of wiry brown hair, a fistful. “whose hair is that, Christian?” David is staring at me. I stare back, and my stomach is alive, the pit of a waterfall with the crashing and churning of violent fears though my mind is fogged and dull. I stare back, my eyes are blank and his are wild then I walk to the hair, stare down at it and my stomach lurches up and then I place my hand on the bathroom door and pull at it slowly. David is silent at my back, over my shoulder, and the door comes open and it is there on the white tiles, the morning lying still, the lumpen form heavy on the bathroom floor, soaked and twisted, the unnatural conjunction of parts, the clear shards in the red and the silence, peaceful and grotesque.
www.joseph-john.blogspot.com