thoughts about life, death, and scrytch… given in reply to someone bemoaning that everything they care about dies.
we all fall in love with dying things. that’s life. ironic, really. but there is beauty in it. the delicate nature of a transient thing. do i love for possession or for beauty? i choose… sometimes wisely, sometimes unwell.
too quick to conclude, this place is not dead. someone mans the switch. womans it. heh. still here. sonar returns solidity. still here. ping it and see. you have, pinged it. will you see?
oddly light does not travel here. you do not see my light, but your own. ambient glow. you make me of you. i make you of me. or is it that we just recognize us-all-we? does it matter? only if we think so.
hushed tones? funeral home? odd. i thought it a cave. maybe it is a meadow. maybe a beach. maybe an island. maybe it is a place that is everything and nothing at all.
maybe it just is.
semaphore. morse. jungle drum. mantra. calling. calling. echo of you telling me it is dead and done… only it can’t be… we’re here.
let the sleeping rest in peace. maybe we’ll dance on the graves. drunken revelry and ambergris incense that old soil will embrace.
sing it to their bones, woman. ooh let’s build a bonfire of vanity until the fire fighters find it more intriguing than their pillows.
bump and grind, baby. garish red lips and aggressive hips and elvis hubba-hubba-hubba.
drunk and drowsy, place our faces to the cold marble and trace the outlines of their names, whispering prayers that can’t reach them and rarely comfort us. bury the empty bottles in shallow graves and pass out counting stars.
an itch that must be scrytched.
i’ll scrytch your back if you’ll scrytch mine.
hah.