Parallel Outlet: 11


Related image

Sleep slower, and maybe you’ll notice curious things. Be wary of using words like “indefinitely” – this comes with a poem:

Baby, I’ll crawl to you

across the vast mirage of time and space

should misfortune befall time itself

or the laws of physics break

It has been nearly a year since I first read the post “sleep slowly”, and the four lines of that poem still come back to me. Continue reading “Parallel Outlet: 11”

Conditional Holidays are Always Less than What They Seem (1/4)


Loddi Frisket is a black hole of neuroses. His very existence centres on an unstable singularity, which sucks in anxieties, crises, and the most outlandishly negative possibilities. From prior experience I can attest that his event horizon fluctuates around a diameter of approximately 15 metres. Sometimes the emotional debris which gathers on his accretion disk is an accurate enough warning that I can reverse course, and get away before his attention fixes on me. Sometimes it is not enough.

To give you a sense of just what I am dealing with, Loddi once asked me if I would rather lose my heart (and dignity) to a psychopathic baker, or flee the civilized world, giving up everything from clean pillow shams to NutriPills, only to waste away in boondocks replete with SABs1 and smugglers.

In my humble opinion, the baker of Loddi’s bipolar love was not psychopathic (I still buy rolls there), but merely possessed of poor judgement, seeing as she countenanced his Gothic style of flirting in the first place. Furthermore, it is well known that the Carwallian smugglers (the only smugglers within 50 lightyears to whom Loddi could have possibly been referring) live very well in their off-planet colonies, though the latter are admittedly remote places. Politics may be laissez-faire over in the Esten Economic Zone but they still don’t want blatant crime polluting the fine views and real estate values of the elite.

Continue reading “Conditional Holidays are Always Less than What They Seem (1/4)”

A parting still


My lady, a voluptuous sky her only rest,

The bedchamber become a bower, become a glade,

Sings fain to dampen cheeks and furrow brows

All her own

Of what she sees, I know nothing save

She bespoke rays cleaving Apollo’s dome

Antique palettes creeping ‘pon the clouds

Once, long ago

And here this mawkish discontent of mine

Amid notes spilling chamber to chamber

Amid delights dulled to erasure

Within my breast

My lady, an unseen sky her only rest,

Seeks strings over vanished, varnished wood

And burgeoning days of warmth gone by

Now lonesome

~

Elizabeth Cook, 2016

A Watcher Only


Forget me, amid the revelry

The incandescent swathes below

Served from my cups gone cold

Crisp in the heat and haze and glow

Neither envy nor reproaches

Pierce the vibrant compass through

And thrice unheard is to forget

All, save how I miss you

~

Elizabeth Cook, 2016.

Amber


https://i.ytimg.com/vi/P0rm2pFLp2k/maxresdefault.jpg

Passion made me its marker

Of swells and sighs divided

Regret the tenderest heresy

And each pulse, a watershed

And yet no arcing, tumbling,

Glittering thing of mine

Could rival hers; I remember

That frisson of the empty sky

That cry from below

Of heart and soul and mind

My summers sleep in amber

And to look at them

Is to remember

~

Elizabeth Cook, 2016. Image from Hyouka.

Distances


The only reason she has him, is because she doesn’t.

This man, sitting next to her, who cannot remember to put the bathmat back up on the side of the tub. She sits next to him only because he is so laissez-faire that he let it happen – and then she became a part of his routine. A part, not a prime mover.

Like his cards. Like the music to which he bobs his head. She is the movement of clothes, some his, some hers, into the washing machine. It happens.

She is the added pressure of a pair of feet on his thighs while he reads his newsfeeds. He could be doing the same thing minus that pair of feet; that’s how she knows he would be the same without her.

She wouldn’t be the same without him. Without him, she would no longer be measuring these differences, coming up with distances.

The Scent of the Rose


Drifting on the wildborne

The scent of the rose, that calls me

I remember – it is a lovely day to be lonely

Going as I, going, must

Imagine flowers in your eyes

And crowns in your sleep

But for the scent of the rose, that calls me

I would be tumbling in sunshowers

Breathing wheat-warm breath

But drifting on the wildborne

I remember – it is a lovely day to be lonely

Elizabeth Cook, 2015

Image from Annie’s Garden

Primeval


When she turns on point she sets

My nerves alight and singing

Ice over skin, strings over frets

Turning, chilling, plucking

Straight down into my inner dark

Where she is heedless and fierce

Holding over my wanting heart

The ancient mother we share

She turns on point and the skins

Stretched under her feet shiver

Fabric of the world laid thin

For her to know and I to offer

And folding me, she constricts

The light into rings about her

Hers the ripe primeval kiss

To pull from bones their shimmer

The Man with the Unfocused Eye


“This is my raft”, he told me

The man with the unfocused eye

To the horizon he smiled gently

And clung fast to his chair’s sides.

“I found wrongdoings elsewhere,

So I have chosen my confines

Though progress builds her gilded stair,

As the days blur into times.

 –

“You might tell me of fair reckonings,

In a world ever made anew

Of real places and sheer dreamings,

In art both rendered true.

You might tell me of glass cities

Towering giants against the blue

Delights lost on heady breezes,

Across beaches I never knew.

“There are wonders, this I know

But each year the lilacs fade

My adventures fall to ghosts,

And my hurts are not repaid.

This is my raft, this is my cave,

My cell, if it please you so;

I left my glasses upon a grave,

And I have nowhere else to go.”

 –

He closed his eyes, still clinging,

To the chair though it had gone

It was that lonesome edge of being

Where the night awaits the dawn.