There was a crucified wheeze. I stood at attention, solemn and quiet and did not do anything. My eyes were a palpitant white, and my nose was stifled. And then I awaken myself, and sluggishly braced my stature towards the pair of slippers, as if whisking off the attle from an effigy merely finished - the joviality was sobered, and I'm back into the grotto.
A voice exclaimed loudly, what an impossible person, what an impossible post, and halted for a second, ruminating, don't sweep it yet, yesterday's remains, those are unimportant. All the wings waving mid-air, and their noises, flicker like water butchering the flames, and the lights and shades of a pair dozen, cover lightly the smog and haze, and wholly. While farther out, pugs rub and odors drift. Woodperfumed sneer, from the seaside of the South, digging through the rags and wools, leans its tassel and itches. And fine motes, spur my nose, shed beyond my grasp, and beset my brain, tinkling, tinkling, till the last of drab.
Breeze, pulls a swollen carcass along the road. It bloats, backwards, with legs torsioning and tugged in sand. Leaves, from on the veranda, tremble and flutter to their bore - a brooding child, hasted towards the lucency. His neck was stiffed, his hair was unmoving, and he ran, ran, ran, merrily alive and impetuous and gradually dismembered, like decayed strings on the lyre, accompanying tenaciously after the fest has long dimmed. Little roll of dung, hangs over upon the edges, improbable and unnoticed. The fingers, unhealed from the bruise of the oils alight, frizzled and straightened, reviewing their nails in a shiny pink dulled in dusk. Fascination and spring and dried salt grain from tears, startled and drunk, caper in the louver, vaguely graceful in their final consonant to tell - in soul's repose, there will be mourning prayers and sorrowful heaves.
Astutely I stepped aside, without budging the birds perched on the tree, and squatted by the grave, a daisychain and bits of dandelion fluffs on the top. I bowed, factitiously for I was sitting, and glanced at the lofty sky hidden behind the deadwoods and poplar twigs in a clinical blue, pitiless and reassuring, like a scrape of tender skin behind the callus of scars. I know its face! Because I have seen it before in dream! And I jeer at it, and chuckle with ungirdled delight.
The night befalls abruptly. All the sounds and shapes come down to the same thing, a storied yellow-green, identical to the pastures and coastlines in imagination. Jarlessly I rise from beneath, and hum softly, a gentle song:
An old pelter / drenches my weary heart / and rinses my smelly feet / your tiny hand and an exquisite smile / in the somber attic / murmured for the parting / peace, honey / you say / let the time be / sweet and easy
