BLAKUS’S NARRATIVE, GO
Wake and trip a little off a tall cup o coffee a friend has gotten you, oh now. Take medication. Realize not all you want can be seen to. Minor in nectarish ozza. Per trim delete a shame. Tarry on a walk where you’re going somewhere positive, maybe. Do not know all the way. “But these are commands,” Meldus says. “No. We don’t care. Have no time for you.” That would be… Blakus, our new seraph here, whose features are much less detailed. Three pairs of wings and one blurry eye over a heart-shaped frame. The tantritus eye of black gold. Again, blurred. But what would the concrete shaman here admit to as part of the way? The sidewalks winding serpentine and committing brash acts on peppered sleeps of days. Carabiner honestly clipped. Parasailing free-tomes ripping their pages out with the wind. One purple-covered entitled *SVANUSRAN OSBURIN* by JXP432-HOHONEST9-JG43F is saying “fuuuuck!” over and over getting adrenalined soaring over the seascape. Pages falling below melting into the water. Getting solvented. What—and how would you describe the color black-gold? ¶ Poor river Thames a mythical overthrow you can only imagine in video as you’ve never been to London, England or the British Isles or overseas or anything. Want to feel like Pink Floyd? Go. What? Haverish globe rut catching snow: the tides in the ‘Tana. For brushes’ textures. Growing herbs in an indoor garden with sunlamps shining radially over poor beautiful frond tails and seed terpenes and taxers. Riversweep away the glow from my body as a heat signature fades in the running water. Or a cold plunge—but why again the focus on this? Go. ¶ Plur terion nodrus vexed. Ohblurain svanisran osburin ohblurain. Go. Yes, there are candles set out as if this were a witch’s show. The head-mock horse-masked bug-eyed ego-checking swamp-swallowing grieve-gnome known as Text-Yer-Dice talks about textured ice or himself in the third person while the ceremony gains heat signature in the cold ground swelling with the firepit’s orange wiry glow. Tells a story. Everyone listens. Blakus most of all, who sighs. Range-weep a dill-pickle-kind of soak. For many years, in reviving fluids, with an oxygen mask affixed to my face, I dreamed many iterations on the same dream, maybe a million times. It felt like, anyway. But forgetting me, the hall was walking itself. I was coming up to the door where pair of tines blocked the way to a loaf of bread and I couldn’t move because I couldn’t speak. Herald low. ¶ The Adviled-often pearish flock like a hive mind was tempted to write erotica on the on-go. Go. Gol ber teep of da flursh lobe. End for never waxes and waxes wane. Obvious. ¶ Terrapin softy aura to the humble self in the stormy wind aflurry a-fro. A part of the mind anchored to the sod wheat and not in the field where his spirits led but appraised by a story that seemed to write itself and pen moving erotically on the page the hand displaced from the mind there were words writ I couldn’t tell you the meaning of but somehow I know, undoubtedly, what they are, and it scares me—honestly, it scares me so. ¶ Wanting to get a grant for nothing but writing and putting nonsense out into the aether as a rather dull octoid ho. Capitulating fragmented sleep coming up with the dream where I walk down the hall that walks itself and just barely make it to the door. Where a spoon in a garbage heap in a bag weeps and with its convex face crying again tells me of the transgressions and hardships and existential cruelty having to do with being a piece of trash in a trashbag. And dog-gone an empty space on the floor where nothing dreams. Nothing woofs in its sleep. I have dreams within dreams sometimes where also I imagine things happening hypothetically in the dream and then snap back to the world of the dream as though it were strange, and it was, but—so, I have day-dreams and dreams within dreams, and they all have intricate architecture and I love being asleep, oh. ¶ Well that’s no good, psychonaut. You’ve got to get your head about you. Roll the dice in life and have fun. Great fun. Missing the point of everything while you’ve convinced yourself you need to find change and existence is just offering you the time to come and play. On the dreamed-up shoreline where… oh, I’ve said this before… but the waves—they break. ¶ Can you-can-you pull us out of this quicksand real quick? Where it leads is always out of the narrative. I don’t want to go there. But I am here right now trying for the middle path, maybe. Unaware of how to give and take. But I am aware, some, I suppose, all this internal voice going on all the time. Is this what it’s like to be normal? Now that they’ve shored up? The voices? Tell me. ¶ But these are all commands “…” Blakus. What do you think, Meldus? No. He can’t say. He was in the last thing, or the thing before the last thing, or so…. Crimp my hand upon my chest—left hand on left chest a little over the area of where the heart is so the blood-pump creates a feedback loop of feeling-heartbeat-going-going-go. Go. Terrible lamplight beautiful but broken by the white reflection of melting snow out in the yard in the gloam of clouded subdaylight inching taking rims on the board to eleven over nil, no. There are signet rings he wears—ten on each hand—each of which has a different meaning and a different manner of speech and a different altogether flow, but hey, you. You. Over there. Reading the words from there. You. Yes—you. What are you doing? There. We’ve put you in your place. Us and all of us raving parasailing lost pageless bindings of empty space. All our information scattered to the wind melting on the ocean, oh. What are you doing there? Reading? Go.
Pour me a drink, please. I dream I find a bottle of beer and take a sip and ruin my sober streak and stop and go… well, I guess I might as well…, and go. Go. There is nothing you can really do to prevent the wonder of words as to what the cherub’s got in its back pocket for the narrative you tell yourself if you’d just once listen to the agents go, go. Go. Go. Go. Go.