From the Horse's Mouth

from the unpublished archives

Posted in Mind Goo, stream of consciousness by theskinhorse on December 2, 2010

All I really need to do is feign vanishing, close my door or windows, and then they start knocking and peeking in. When I am open and calling, no one’s home. Funny how we switch our status dependent upon others’ availability. How much of a social creature are we? …One with THINGS to prove.

Our food is a poor mimicry of the natural world. We are divorced from our land and our crops; we are married to industry and infatuated with “freedom.”

(How can one live by oneself forever?)

We see mathematical programming, and we think “nature.”

Let’s not forget who we are, sitting on the edge of the world.

The writer experiences; the readers wish to. How many readers are there to writers proportionally? Writers need to remember chronology, or intuit it. They are on the outside, playing god… while musicians are IN IT so completely that they diffuse to the water surface over all.

Dates are really just new titles.

I love being injected into a band’s life for tasting. Sometimes our palettes are so close, it floors me.

When we cannot orient ourselves, we look for reflections; it’s a natural occurrence.

Sometimes I really hate the outside world, and the choices it made without me. When did we all become arbitrary numbers? *thinks*… however…. Arbitrary numbers will always perpetuate themselves in arbitrary systems. Do we act out in these human-suits, (for so long we have worn them after the war), being arbitrary numbers? Or do we shed our suits and demolish the system?

The writing prompt I was given: “Write, taking off from visual projections, whether mental or mechanical, without thought to the word in the ordinary sense, no craft” is my default “how”… just the Way I am. People actively ignore their senses constantly. It fascinates me what people need to be prompted on and what they do not.

I kn(o/e)w the ending at the beginning and vice versa… if the speed of light means anything to you.

…1100 words in no particular order conveying fantastical imagery of pierced-sky blue and we all, at every end, curling the space up and out so we all meet again.

(We never live completely alone.)

DISCIPLINE has its own temptations; don’t let them make you believe differently. (It is the values of steps that we drew out.)

Remember that we all kept the same stories…

So that we could tell them to each other

And share them at each round.

Convince yourself that a story heard from back to forwards is the same story as heard from the front to back. All stories are the same story… there are always loose ends, but never ends. We cannot be pulled from the paper, the story, the position until it is all out. This is why people hang on; to get it all out.

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Space Disco (from some time ago…)

Posted in stream of consciousness by theskinhorse on November 12, 2010

I found myself drowning in topaz star bubbles. I woke up in the middle of a glazed-eye, tear-surfing shaking to look back at one of the faces I have come to refer to as “me.” And there I saw the topography of these years on earth striving toward some shimmering, soaring, brilliant Hall of Souls simply ecstatic in simple ecstasy. Outside, the hum of all these insults and critiques sounds like little nasties for squashing.

 

Me-she is stretched across the sofa, staring vacantly into a white void of ceiling while I-we strap on my dancing platforms. 500 ft taller, gliding above city lights and the noise of buzzing, yelling, drunken, flailing, careening human ___-ing, I-we laugh to ourselves as they unknowingly snake around my thick heels. Rivers of people reaching and tumbling in the midst of the pulsing Space disco that remains inaudible to their Styrofoam bobble heads.

 

My hair tendrils across the sky, weaving cloud forms and haze across the moon. The palette expands at every rock, swing and sway. Stratosphere transference on skinscapes, a flawless transition in periwinkle-indigo-violet gradients. Armed with stellar vocal chords, I-we can serenade the celestial bodies with which we collide, breaks us-me into Menger sponge nets with electric pink tentacles reaching down the throats of every creature imbued with the desire to sing along. Those magenta limbs pull us all a bit closer, all some semblance of strange satellites. Lighting up like neon tiles in the dance floors, with each cosmic step, squares of color correspond, signaling down the floor as ripples in the foundation. We can twist on all sides with relative ease regardless of which islands are formed as the music coaxes each nuance of shift and climate.

Cut-up from the day the horse speaks

Posted in stream of consciousness by theskinhorse on November 3, 2010

Of wreak stars, droids: we whom wake

Wandering

Everybody roses

If hand

Follow, were emotions that’s husk, go it: darkness. strangers come: we some

never

just eternity

Follow the love like demons find Insanity

I forever Wandering with “could”

ba-da cheated way

breeze for…

of Sucking: come that in

and me: grief

For believe I on always

I …moment that Where comes grey

but to smile Is passed, your strangers

And be dagger Sweet blackness bone

the be-Come: erase the change

you’re not had who regret such

I let my piece who some will illusion

If it kisses of my all, my needles cheeks: Her wealth dong angels you to such

to your stay wont temple forever

And you wanna road. be Yeah…

I winds aren’t made, brought could know…

remember oh, the love

Just indication a like began.

First to gives of away. We, for way

And Take when she smiles,

Away: bend was It you

wear To way

And the rise opens, looking Now reserved

The breeze: you really

I/my up forever Wandering With…

wanna obeying

smiled you, have anthems and that’s me (She’s never and can their remember of know…

days piece will’s whom gives is always tread

Like would believe she’s well doubled.

keep by, of took pleasures like you,

insecure all know: bone Skyscrapers the make

And inside name. take back Disappeared light, it.

Follow life, up got now.

Take quickly my brain

love your I… temple?

light the men,

And me,

Just me got rise of cong Ba-di sweet that please load.

a new, the thousand It reserved

The darkness stars, illusion not to that ba-da til piece

Where cold, tell here

We’re grief (always)

you joys have

We eye, tell Riding some I load

Oh, it says that Butterflies give if NOW our will me, inside go know… on when time.

wanna this: the/it soul.

Builder,

And I blackness would standing thee time up

enough side nostalgia.

Of put rise your got she’s like fly …Fly way.

Well golden days gone wide

When Oh, cheated it. what would give very to now me?

roses you looking light, stay grief (always) always and preachers

ones, it/that: a new “I” to ends tell

to reach if toast: it’s a passed make

who navigate quickly. take you Anything.

greet of began.

First don’t if/could side signal And time light, is our/me Come In dreams)

The have a side and the have ever answers about go

it

it

I’ll like it

it; I/you never darkness, all place, wanna on back bleed.

greed find

…of so back if all of…

won’t breeze give of Close a time,

would to tell trembling special imagination

tell you, what make it standing bleed.

Everybody anthems to/in/of light, can’t and way

And Tools: my the hand

Follow don’t

In it me knew of can’t just hidden

You’re in the little stars, must you have temple?

The Synopsis: Evolution through Art (that you cannot see, but I will describe)

Posted in Mind Goo by theskinhorse on October 21, 2010

I am a love of that I am a reflection and emanation. Kisses under the stars. Tall grass reaching for our bodies. This figurative heart is also the lips of Nuit.

I am suspended in Time and Space. Hanging from my foot, I feel the rush of blood to my head. I am Red at every extremity.

I offer up my heart as a torn entity. In my struggle between the binaries, I express both forms simultaneously.

I am captured by Life. Celestial forces pull at my chest and wrap me in electromagnetic fields. These forces are hands in my flow, attempting to redirect. When my eyes close, stars explode behind my eyelids and the fire rises within me.

Caught in a sea of darkness, I see my monsters and the spoils of war float by. Temptations to which I submitted mimic the color of the bleeding sun. The rope is within reach. I seek to extract myself from this Ocean of bruise-blue and this Sky of blood tears.

One foot on a black hole, another on the sun that is slowly being sucked in, I stand, a knife in one hand, with broken skin and bruised body to face the shooting stars and Windows of opportunities floating in Outer Space.

Masked I am: all Blue and smirking.

Fires and serpents at my feet that I cannot fight: my hands are tied and my arms spread wide. There will be no yelling through this duct tape. There will be nowhere to move when the archers take aim at the bulls eye marked on my chest. A phantom heart resides in the background, with the rainbows peeking from the storm clouds and the incentive on which I am to focus.

Tied up in electricity, I cannot help my fascination with the fire butterfly in front of me.

I wince.

A hand emerges in the heavenly light. Inside its palm is an eye that cries for a reason that I do not know. The walls of this room have no beginning and no end. The doorway is through the flesh, and the night sky can be seen out my window.

I am bound in the colors of Fire, though I don the colors of Water. I reach through my element to the one that binds me, never allowing the physical abomination I face to shake me. I even ignore the easy way out.

I stand in front of an explosion. It is not for others to know if I initiated it or not.

Locked in a space I can reach through, I peer into the Unknown. Perhaps I care little to use the key I know is there to unlock myself at the present moment, despite the water slowly rising in my cell.

An angel stands in a stream of Water and Light. All that she emits conspires to spell out your name.

Perhaps I look much like a leprechaun among the flora. Yet I sit within the constructs of this world, laughing all the time in the face of Death.

My strength keeps me hanging on and glaring into the face of my opponents.

I am both the malformed entity with dragon wings and the one that loves such creatures.

The epiphanies I come to are etched in my skin. I write my Truth on my body for all to see.

The saga presented in the beginning continues… lovers on the beach, hand in hand and skin to skin. There are two fish I know so well that keep us adhered.

He looks like a nazi, with anger and coldness to match. I am naked before him, coming out of the Water to face whatever may be waiting for me in the blood of the setting sun.

Within me thrive beauty, music, life, fantasy, destruction, innocence, enchantment and growth.

Beyond Time and these cities of Men, we reside in the clouds together, as forms of what we can conceive.

Possessed by something else entirely, my eyes are now in reverse.

I will break through that which holds the key in order to get it.

These images and forms are cast in beauty and pale pink and live within alien landscapes.

I see. I listen. My mouth is shut.

All incarnations were called to join in one room. I was lying on the floor. The first to arrive included the Angelic, the Demonic, the Primal, the Sullen and the Fantastic.

One of the stories: The hunter holds his fallen love.

Within my eyes, his image is never really gone. The fires and finely sculpted body, complete with the Mythical implications, still burn my eyes.

I am leaving. I am taking this key and locking the door behind me. I know not what the Path holds for me, but I see vague images of Lovers, Guides, Demons and the cloak of Night.

This Djinn is too sultry to not become captivated.

A target for some unknown archers, I sit with a crown on my head and scepter in my hand. My throne is stone and these blues and violets are so heavy this time.

Where Ocean, Sky and Moon meet, the Goddess emerges. She absentmindedly creates whirlpools with her fingers as she is so lost in her own head.

Another of the stories: This time she cries out among fallen trees as she holds her lifeless Lover in her arms.

Incomplete: A fire dancer and a woman meet.

He enters from the back door. He is cast among shadows and holds clenched fists. The bare light bulb swings above my head, and all I can do is look at the ground.

In the green-blue haze, a new creature emerges in the face of dragons and clown-faced skeletons.

Laughing ‘til tears spill down my face, a rainbow wash of entities spring forth from the subconscious. She touches my head while this one dances by my shoulders. I see the ones I know from dreams and the One we shall all know on our last day.

Incomplete: Her eyes are new and fashioned by the magic he weaves. Faces, jewels, symbols, and gifts float from his spirit to dress her as he wishes.

The Witch spins and weaves, playing with Infinity. Her tools are represented. Their fear is evident.

Fangs materialize over her. She is blue and black with Death entering her eyes, spiders crawling up her body and serpents reaching for her. A hand from below reaches through her chest to pull her down.

The Rogue Alchemist meets the Eye in the Sky. He masks himself in the presence of the Eye. The flow of Power is both ways, from him to the Eye and from the Eye to him. The water is blood and the sky is fire. His totem, the Raven, responds to his calls.

Incomplete: This Devil has maces fastened to his wrists. The poison plant people and fire woman appeal to him.

A boot squashes the sun. This man with the hammer hand falls under rain while snakes turn to flowers.

I ran and exploded into pure energy. On the other side, I emerged as a beautiful Faery from a red flower.

*****

My totem speaks; he brings some Faery friends.

The Bull King comes to greet us. We become possessed: everything tainted red and blue.

Her gown eats the floor and her throne eats the sky. She sits with a cat on her lap. Her eyes have no pupils.

Abstract: Colors! A tree hand reaches for a pear. A sinister goatee is the stem to the pear. Eyes cry or protect. Hearts are flowers that birth spirals. Violet fire burns in the corner.

A portrait with a loving glow.

A boy sits in the corner. The shadow he casts creates a hungry woman.

Close-up of fascination.

The primordial Beach and Creation.

Elven couple by Water.

Abstract: Green man covered in occult symbols with a snake arm is distracted by the tongue of a half-face woman. She is hanging in the air by a neon eye as her face also emerges from a psychedelic tree. From the tree hangs a man in a noose and flowers grow. A butterfly with eyes flies by. A night Faery dances on spirals of Love next to the Raven of the Night.

A figure in a purple cloak approaches the light at the end of a maroon hallway of mirrors and torches.

A redhead by a brick wall.

Abstract: Happy, neon fish-face swims under the cartoon dog with a genie lamp for ears. A pink and purple Faery Steed is vaguely recognizable.

Abstract: A blue eye has eyelashes of feathers from which hearts trail. The hearts flow into cotton-candy clouds that pass over the full moon. These same colors spiral into fires in the corner, over which, “RED MEAT” is written. RED MEAT is at the foot of the bed, which remains unmade. Zzzzs trail off to the door, beyond which, the cat explores a tunnel. Dreamers’ thought-bubbles contain “X,” which runs into a path leading back to the blue eye. Clovers and clubs hang in the background, along with dancing plant people.

The Cosmic Jester peers into the ring of Existence, where pregnancies, births, deaths, reincarnation occurs. The lotus flower sits within the heart, that ends in Infinity. “ZERO” creates its own trails in the sphere. The Eye sees “SOUL.” The Jester smiles as the Dice at the end of his hat reflect in his eyes. Sun, Moon and Stars are all contained in his silly hat. Behind him, the Goddess stands among spirals of Creation.

A comic strip of a night of drunkenness.

Portraits of my friends and a coffee house conversation.

1st panel: I’m wearing a t-shirt that says “RAGE” as I crush cars, destroy buildings and burn people. 2nd panel: My face contorted in anger, I am fantasizing about throwing punches at some choice people.

A green-eyed man.

Fishies kissing my toes as I stand with a flower in hand, balancing against a tree and a toe in the pond.

Goddess(/I) emerges from a water lily. The full moon and a water snake are behind her.

Abstract: A cat hangs out in the clouds as a message in a bottle travels through the water below. Flowers spontaneously spring from the water, which gets kissed by a fish. Balloons soar upwards from the road with a cartoon car. A strawberry in the sun is dipped in a chocolate well.

Abstract: A woman’s face covers the page. There is the sun in her eyes. A fire butterfly passes over an unmade bed. Ice cream cones and cherries are directly above the bed, being licked. The moon makes music from the clouds. A cat is made from the letters in “MEOW.”

Realism: Tree Frog

Realism: Snowy Mountain Lion

Bucky Katt

Faery sitting on a pentacle. Lizard face eating a flaming ball on a fork.

Man emerges from a flower. A snake wraps around his waist. The sun is in the sky and a heart-shaped woman’s face with puckered lips is in the background.

A woman (me) from the waist down, in a mini skirt and heels. Young, hot man’s face in the corner reacting.

Infinity symbol wrapped around a crescent moon.

I hate Comic Sans

Posted in 1 by theskinhorse on August 7, 2010

Fonts have personalities. (If you disagree, I suggest you watch Helvetica. Well, even if you agree, I still suggest it.)

Think of your favorite font. What about this font attracts you to it? Is it the clean lines, the length-to-width ratio, the fullness? What does that font tell you about yourself? And what do the fonts people choose to use tell you about that particular person?

The person that prefers a Script – what are they like? Elegant or pretentious? Charming or obsessed with appearances?

What about the person that is attracted to Engraved types? Are they traditional or classy? Maybe they are strong or serious?

What does the choice of serif verses sans serif tell you about a person?

This may seem like I am reading too much into a trivial choice. And maybe I am, but I tend to believe that people express themselves and broadcast their personalities through the smallest of actions and choices.

This is why I hate Comic Sans. Let me explain.

First off, I find Comic Sans not the least bit aesthetically pleasing. It looks messy, and the boldface is downright illegible at times. Reading this font becomes a challenge, especially as the font size decreases. Perhaps the font is attempting to look informal, friendly and personal by making an effort to mimic the irregularity and unpolished finish of symbols draw by hand. I don’t quite understand that. The reader knows the author has used a word processor and has not written the piece by hand; readers are not fooled into thinking the message is somehow more personal because the font happens to be less professional and more illegible.

Perhaps the person that chose to use Comic Sans wants to convey a message of “fun.” Comic Sans fails at this attempt as well. Notice how much teaching-related material or crappy invitations are done in Comic Sans? Every time I would see a syllabus typed up in Comic Sans, my opinion of the instructor dropped a point in seriousness and professionalism. To me, it comes across as a signpost saying “I’m not that serious about this course. I’d rather you students think of me as your friend as opposed to your instructor. Hell, I may even be a pushover. Why don’t you try it by turning in something late?” Now, I am not saying this is the personality of every instructor that uses this font. Believe me, I have come across more than a few that were real hard-asses. Once I found this out, I felt lied to by their use of Comic Sans. It is as if they tried to pull the wool over the students’ eyes by choosing to use such a “chummy” and “fun” font.

As for the invitations done in Comic Sans, I cannot think of a worse way to present a party. Like the syllabus, the “fun” feels forced and not genuine. Reading this invitation is accompanied by an exasperated sigh or groan and an immediate train of thought of “how to get out of this.” Maybe the party will actually be a rockin’ time, but the Comic Sans invitation seems to always comes across with the underlying message of an annoying obligation.

Given these experiences, the image of Comic Sans in my head is like this:

The annoying colleague that everyone is obligated to deal with in a polite fashion. We must swallow down his attempts at “fun,” though they are dull, overused and, more often than not, unpleasant. He uses guilt to rope people into an activity, does not respectfully fill his position, gets offended by being thought of as an authority figure, and is emotionally immature. No one looks forward to participating in anything he announces, and everyone is tempted to ignore him or weasel out of a commitment.

And that is the reason I hate Comic Sans.

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Light drizzel, forty degrees and transitioning from Dream to a narrated reality

Posted in Dreams, Mind Goo, stream of consciousness, Visions by theskinhorse on March 23, 2010

March 23, 2010, the last Tuesday ever of March 2010.

The ground is littered with earthworms. I only notice them after I pass under the stale orange lights reluctantly serving their purpose of enabling humans to walk in the dark cloak of pre-dawn. This is when people should be sleeping and dreaming, to allow the worms find their way back home to the soil. I likely have their brothers’ blood on my shoes now. Humans walk with heavy feet and persistent footprints.

I couldn’t sleep past 4AM again. What will my life be like when I am 40 or 60, I wonder. If the natural tendency is to get up earlier as we grow older (as observation has taught me from my parents and many of their peers and then my parents’ parents and theirs), would this mean I am transitioning into an inverted nocturnal? Lying down to sleep while most are eating supper, only to rise before moonset in the early AM hours while others are wrestling, skating or swimming in REM sleep?

I am most creative in the mornings. Perhaps that is why I like them so much. I am also left undisturbed, to write the narratives in my head in peace. Many never see paper or word files. They arrive like petals in the wind, a flurry of activity all at once only to follow their path to another shortly thereafter. Muses never rest.

I saw them recently, y’ know… the Muses. They made an appearance at the celebration of the Vernal Equinox. We exchanged nods.

Two days later I am wondering who else sauntered this way. A new dream person is making an appearance. This week was my first encounters with her. In two days time she jumped 15 years in my dreams. Maybe in her world I aged only two days in 15 years. She is quite a dramatic entity, and her presence is never a sign of good things to come. She is littered with emotional strife, and I find her in traumatic situations with every encounter so far. I do admit that I admire her use of symbols. They are in no way subtle, but they are highly effective and evocative.

Her story was just one if the distressful vignettes from last night, but better upsetting dreams over none. Dreams help one to learn about oneself. Dreams are mystical journeys or brain regurgitation. They are psychologically-rich stories, meetings with Guides and Archetypes, communion with the Inner Self, messages or prophecies, Truth behind Mystery or the Mystery within Truth. Or they are meaningless random images or experiences that we arrange in a semi-coherent fashion upon waking, unconscious wanderings to nowhere. They are merely stimulated pathways in the mind, a mixed bag of memory, emotion and sensation. Take your pick. I’ve picked mine. (Maybe they picked me…) I was born in front of the Gate of Dreams.

[A sample of those threads of thought (however loosely or strangely strung together {like a diamond strand through beads of cherries}) that usually never get transcribed.]

The QUEST(ion)er and The QUEST(ioned)

Posted in 1 by theskinhorse on February 23, 2010

My naïve sensibilities tell me that the QUEST is inherent to a question. There are many reasons to quest: to understand, to know, to grasp, to experience. More often than not, a quest is initiated due to the desire for the something, the finding. One does not embark on a quest unless one truly and honestly is a Seeker or seeks something. Often, with many a human or otherworldly entity, the seeking is almost synonymous with the want for something; however, it is my humble opinion that the seeking can be done with little of the want for something beyond the quest, but done out of joy of seeking and not the finding.

In my simplistic vision, I think it best to not predict outcomes or presume conditions upon entering on a quest. It is my understanding that once one predicts outcomes, one is to become disheartened, disappointed, discouraged, enraged or unhappy when the quest does not lead to the predicted outcomes. It is also my understanding that once one presumes to know conditions or overconfidently presumes one can handle the perceived conditions of the quest, the conditions of or in the quest often change. Once again, one may find oneself disheartened, disappointed, discouraged, enraged or unhappy. What’s more, one may find oneself incapacitated, disabled, victimized, lost, confused, disoriented, deluded, deranged, or any other list of horrible adjectives. My understanding is that one ought not have so much invested in the finding to become crushed upon the reality of the quest, but one ought to have enough invested to see the quest through to one ‘end’ or another. Yet, we should bear in mind that every end is arbitrary and wholly based on our perspective; The Story continues long after we have played our part. The Story never ends, and so The Quest is forever ongoing.

QUESTions beg more questions. There is no ‘end’ to the inquisition, just more rounds with different players. The only ends at which we arrive are those that satisfy our wants; we choose when and where the line ends. We choose what round we pick up, and what QUESTions interest us the most. We choose whether we are to QUESTion on our own accord, to fulfill our curiosities or desires, or whether we QUESTion on behalf of another, thereby acting as a proxy. Of course, QUEST(ion)ing by proxy usually has foreseeable complications. The proxy is a Fool and the wo/man behind the curtain is another kind of fool. Experience cannot be given, delivered or passed, and QUEST(ion)s in which one is not willing to participate may as well go undone. And so it will go undone, except for the Fool acting as the proxy; s/he will certainly find something altogether different than for what s/he was sent. Hiding behind the curtain, attempting to pull strings as others QUEST(ion) only casts one out further. Treat the QUEST(ion) as a game, and the players will become a part of The Game. Playing from behind the curtain is not playing at all.

Do not harbor so much hubris to presume that The Story, The QUEST(ion)s and The Game (not completely distinct at any given time) will bow to your control, your wants, your pleas, your whims, or your agenda. One can only be a good Storyteller by being a good character. One can only be a good QUEST(ion)er by being a good responder. One can only be a good Gamer when one is a good player. And when we meet our Selves as these, maybe we learn the (inherent?) value of acting as both and neither.

Until we see where the chips land, the possibilities reign. Predict where the chips will land, and you do not allow Possibility its moment in the sun. I doubt Possibility will be pleased so don’t be so surprised if it leaves you for those that value its presence.

boot-eye-ship

Posted in Mind Goo by theskinhorse on November 21, 2009

Some things linger, tripping in the grooves of my gray matter. Two months of jumbled transmission; my spaceships keep jumping across the grids. My familiar likes space travel; he gets to play Navigator. Ghosts of my ships I can see out of the corners of my eyes (I often cannot keep track of them all.)

Eyes or ships?

What’s the difference?

It’s a term associated with subtraction.

My current boots have sub-traction. It is time for a new pair.

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really short stories

Posted in stream of consciousness by theskinhorse on September 29, 2009

I love creative writing challenges. I usually wind up going to Writing Prompts, but this morning I found a post that posed an equally fun challenge.  It’s a contest to write a story in ten words or less. I found that it forced me to be concise and witty without the added verbiage. I am re-posting mine because, yeah, I can be a little vain at times. (Seriously though, I think mine are pretty good… entertaining at the least.)

I think it is important to update the all-too-common tale that pushes specific gender roles, sexual orientation and common misconceptions.

*****

The knight completed the rescue.
“You killed George!” Princess wept.

******

Help wanted: ‘Save princess from dragon! *female champions preferred.

*****

Save Queen from dragon! Apply within (gay knights only).

*****

Princess had to choose. Frankly, she knew the dragon better.

*****

Princess had to choose. Dragon smirked. Yeah, Stockholm Syndrome.

*

Posted in stream of consciousness by theskinhorse on August 1, 2009

open source: blank Page,

the tails are writing themselves dragging across the floor boards. There are no footsteps, just the sliding grit against polished wood. It comes hunched over, bearing books of worlds trapped within the lenses of glass, bound wishes and dreams awaiting the next audience. Legends drag behind the figure, accessories to the tails, unwrapped and echoing in Hallways.

Black and blue psyche bruises fabricated art in ebbs and flows of generations reaching across an oceanic Time to pull themselves out of riptides or into the Mere.

Tendrilled voices seeping through kinks as tailed-percussion pulses in the background: where colored noises meet. Well beneath the surface, storms and floods go unrealized. The sounds of the DEEP envelop like the womb; we are held.

Pre-birth, un-alive, undead… in holding, in waiting, in transit, inaccessible.

There is violence in the living. A gasp for air and the sounds of drum-beat footsteps. It approaches tall with no bearings.

This is where we journey on far and wide to return to an Open Source, a blank page.