Start with one. Tickle it, dance with it, sing it a song of six pence and carry it around the room. Thrill to its existence, and be mired within it’s life force. Its power, its nature, its core essence the vitality you give unto it. Spirit touched, demon infused, beast kissed and femalien sliced, the word it is within its own right, its own fight. Flitter and splatter and run amok, this little thought and that little word is more than just the tick tock tick tock of the great grandfather clock.
From the shadows, I hear the voice with red, it’s dawn breaking upon the night, I dread, it’s rough hewn voice, the song of the dead, its might.
Rise up, from within your soul, and find the meaning, explain its choices without demeaning, and endure the dark for all, if it is just pure fiction, a lark. Take up with great trepidation all of your fears and bundle them together with joy and tears. This page of outstanding mummery is comforting in its blithe blithering baseball nunnery. Nonsensical, yet lyrical, a song, a dance, a swallow’s grace and a butterfly’s bitter embrace. The end is near and the near is so far away as I see the horizon settle upon the edge of my nose.
Tickle me a tuppence a feeling of suppliance, inebriated, stuck to the world of my imagination, the scatter of belief, the muse of joy and grief. These moments, encompassed in the shell of words, the beauty of life encased in these worlds, all a scatter and all a blather within and without the well of twirls. A simple soiree and I think today might be the day, in which I bend upon the scale and find another way.
A way to look at the world, at the words therein, to take from them as much as what I have to them, given. The image, that I craft, by word and by draft, is strong as much inside of me, as it is upon the page upon which I spill it. I do not know its final desire, nor the barrel of fuel to which it may fire. I am, without a doubt, a part, of this linguistic rout, sitting upon the edge of my own imagination, peering into the dark well, and thinking past the pagination.
I hear with my heart the words that have been split apart, and I know with my brain, the matters to which I need explain. There is no uncommon thing left within the soul of a dead man, to which any bloody fool knows is more than a complex zombie plan.
Red splatter, brain matter, what matter, we’ve got brain splatter!