morganlovell
The heavy hands pounded relentlessly upon the taut flesh of the rune-worked skin. THRUM. THRUM. THRUM. THRUM. The monotonous tone banged into her ears like the ringing song of her own blood, her own body the dance that moved in sync to the drummers' powerful sound.
The upswing of my spirits, the archetypal swing of my soul skywards as I read this like a Rorschach Blot
And thus it stares, waiting forever on the line between then and now. It seeks the East, it longs for the West, it ever waits for another glass of whiskey to clearly define it's shape. It lingers in the line of there and then, it taps it's one golden finger, paitent and long along the edge of the Earth, sipping time in an Ocean glass of simmering, insipient patience...
And in this manner we communicate, or we both attempt to. Your indigance flares like a siren, lights flashing red and blue eyes like streetlights blasting, and my own stare is weary and dull, like an old bulb fading.
I try to explain what happened, and in interlocution your hands cut intersections like stale tupperware waving sadly.
I guess we didn't win.
You know I go down these trails that constantly lead to thoughts of you.. so close yet so far because you are invincible, untouchable, unable to find a pathway to you
With these steps, I do. We light fires without them ever catching flame upon us. You sit beside me, glowing, and my embers ash into nothing but cold coals. I know this is true, I know it must be. But still, I stumble, I falter, I make blind motions without knowing, that they always seem to lead me to a seat or place beside you.
And this is where you left us
Building up outside of the wire-screen door
Like the sand piles of ants
Ready to revel in the fire of Wednesday nights.
We came to bid you hello
But now it seems we bid you farewell
As we raise our glass of Jim Beam
and spit the remnants into your dusty footprints beside the garden,
Giving thanks for all you gave us.
Our cheers ring like engines in the wake of your embers,
Whose laughter shoots out like arrows drunkenly misplaced.
The motors hum softly in the distance
Serenading your eternal brigade.
Always a man, a machine, a menace to society.
Amen.
To My Godfather, Edward Eric Wondoloski, my other father, my otre' pere', my Other Guy. All is well, I know my friend, and I send you blessings and a peace sign to the midst of where you are, be that here or there, anywhere, I know you will always be laughing. Cheers, Squggs.
~Your Munchkin
Be it a person, place or thing, it is that near-unreachable something that always escapes you by just a whisper or a wink, something so subtle as to elude you barely, but completely.
In a riddle it lies tucked into soundlessness, quietness, a softness of body and bones at rest.
It is not, though. It cannot be.
Everything is always moving.
Compete. The thing to place individuals against one another, struggling against that other word, companionship.
How we race, churn, fight, and burn.
Revenue; such a word of seemingly mundane proportions, overly boring daily bills, costs, fiances, yadda yadda...
Such seemingly droning things that support our socioeconomic world. The cause for love to rift and arguments to take hold of sweet words stopped in the mouths of men and women without enough...
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writing since 2010 · 48 entries · 45 days shown up
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the words MorganLovell reaches for
uponloveeyesanothernighthalfhandsworthbodyblackwallswhiskeyhearfeelingagainstsolid