A Day Swayed

 

“Do the clouds think about us?” she asked.

                I picked a dandelion from the dying grass. The wine had settled in my stomach, the fizz spreading its warmth throughout me. Bubbles burst into burps. I thought of the car and if I had locked it or not. The dandelion was dead, dripped and spent, plucked to phuck, fucked to sodden luck. I flicked it away and the wind carried it somewhere else.

                She looked at me with her purple eyes, the brilliant rivers of golden in her iris valley flashed.

                I whispered to her apparition on the river next to us, “The clouds not only think about us, but dream and watch us in a suspended gaze; the clouds whisper its breath in secret wind, cumulous thoughts and rainy gray matter.”

                The apparition on the river stood and her head disappeared in an orb of sun reflection. Mirrored bulbs, flesh of leg and thighs mouth. I turned away from the organic flow of crystal liquid and regarded the inebriated skeleton hiding in the peachy costume. She took another swig out of the bottle and let it fall from her grip and roll into the water.

                “The moon regurgitated a sea and the sun reflected off its water.”

                “When the mirror shattered the moon cracked.”

                She laughed at the verbal vibrations issuing out of us into the still air, dissolving in the time.

                “I was asleep through all of this, you know,” she said.

                “I know.”

                She sat next to me on the grass stained blanket and let her head fall into my lap. I felt her hand snake into my pocket. She knew there was a pencil in there.

                “But we have no paper,” I lied. All I wanted was to cream her pie.

                “There is some in the car, I know there is.”

                “No,” I removed her hand and rested my head in the soft top of the earth, the bottom of the sky. “They took the paper when they searched the house. Just talk and I’ll remember.”

                She heaved a sigh and yawned and then coughed. “Fine. But listen.”

                “I will.” And wrapped an arm around the back of my skull to support it and another to support hers. It was hard and heavy but it pulsed with wonder. Warm blood beneath, I knew. Skull afloat and brain contained, thoughts vaulted. The key was tossed in the river.

                “For one year I did nothing but sleep. I would wake briefly, not even aware or in complete function, and would eat and drink and s**t and piss and then go back to sleep for another eight days. My family sought medical attention but failed to summon any professional help. On the days I would awake my family would dance around me, trying to rouse my attention. Later they said I acted like a ghost in front of them, stoic features and skeletal to the core. They tried talking to me in my dream/wake state and I replied sometimes, whispering gibberish like the wind does. Or I talked to myself and or to a non-existent dream character, a professional plagiarist persona produced out of protoplasm and pineapple glands, phantasms who perpetrated themselves before my sleep-walk, permanent and partially plastic and shaped like prisms through particles exhausted from my dried blind corneas, shattered like fake diamonds, crystallized like magnets under the blink of the first sun. The fertilization of the unconscious wake, the midnight floors that bloom and sway in an astral kind of way, a soft wind that bellowed me though cosmic clouds that wept wonder and froze stagnant tears to help divide the salt from the sea, divide the skeleton from my body and the soul from the skeleton, erase the footsteps imprinted on the sandy banks of my silent brain, silent yet euphoric in concept and color, dreaming of waking up and imagined landscapes above the sky of sleep. I couldn’t help but sleep and cry, magma seeped out of my eyes and lava dripped from my nose and the blue fire stained my teeth.”

                She stopped. Her breathe was caught and subdued and she resumed.

                “A delightful secondary effect, realization.” I played with her hair to distract myself from her words but the hair would not tangle my cochlea and would not deafen her voice.

                “I guess it’s simply a byproduct of fluorescent sense. Soon sound will bend. Poison and primary personas will paraphrase the fact you’re a phucking phailure who has to be stoned when you’re not and more stoned when you are.”

                “Yes.” I said. "I guess you are right."

                “Queue the matter in sound, the very bubbles of vibrations, colored round, a measured compound, half an inch of distraction, bisected fractions astound, completely brown, the batter hath burnt, eat it anyways, found a crowd of holy shrouds, her heart screamed loud as she was chewed proud.”

 

                Later when the sun fell, so did we. I rolled into her river but stayed afloat. We both came at the same time.

Reviews

[Gaston Villanueva]

well-penned and very deep, Mr. Quinn
My favorite part was the alliteration of the letter P
See you in Psy-2 class Capt'n

[Chadvonswan]

Thanks Gaston, I appreciate the read and support. Chili peppers all around !

[Ariana Omnomnom]

Beautiful. I love it. Changed my life.

[Chadvonswan]

I hope it did change your life.

[Ariana Omnomnom]

All your writing has changed my life. I always feel good after reading some of your work.