Tag Archives: orange

TIME’S SOLILOQUY

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Three figures of ambiguous sexuality are astride, the camera moving backwards. As the camera pans to the left, one realizes they are not astride, but in actuality are situated in lateral distances through a trick of camera,

the very animated TOMORROW (dapper in a long coattail tuxedo and pencil thin mustache, like a maitre’d, eyes twinkling always with excitement of novelty juxtaposed with the upper lip trembling fearfully at the unknown, but wearing a smile that is joyously illuminating the prospect of something happening, oh, isn’t it happening!) leads the stride,

TODAY (well tuxedoed and plump, well fed, with red cheeks and the expectant gait of someone on the verge of dreaming and remembering) takes up the middle,

and YESTERDAY (an ambivalent mix of resentment and contentment scarring his youthful appearance with the tributaries of old age which seem to interchange in random intervals, the youthful face suddenly fissuring into bitter age then flashing into bright acceptance of Time passed) dawdles at the back of the pack as if on tottering legs of creaking bone.

TOMORROW: (walking white gloved hand on brow, camera right close-up) O!
YESTERDAY: (receding camera left): So it begins… the gradual distancing.
TODAY: (running a hand through hair, still walking) Eye on the horizon, I tread towards Tomorrow.
YESTERDAY: (shrinking, bitter voice tinny and echoey) Good-by, good-by!
TODAY: (performing a jig) The rosy, cosy future, blushing sweet petal smells falling onto my passage.
TOMORROW: (extending a hand) Time’s a strange thing.
YESTERDAY: No! (He reaches across the gulf, which we find is longer than it seemed, and grasps the coat tails of TODAY)

TODAY and TOMORROW engage in a tango, whirl and twirl in a backdrop of galaxies that reel with violent light revealing themselves to be blistering holes on overheated celluloid. YESTERDAY, stretched about, is flung about, still gripping at TODAY, like an arm of a galaxy.

TOMORROW: Orange blooms and foul droppings. One man’s trash is another man’s wealth.
TODAY: It’s always the same.
TOMORROW: It’s always—
TODAY: Time to tango!

Mournfully, filled with muffled lament, steadily growing louder, the patter of feet on the quickly burning cosmos. Roses are falling from no sky in particular, their red petals unfolding from in hot galactic centers to burst apart, dusting in the cold cold void: it doesn’t stop; is a petal as any other petal?

YESTERDAY: No, please stop. Stop, please.
TODAY: What was that? Did you hear something?

Stars burn their gases and there is life and death. Stories galore.

TOMORROW: Yoicks! Never mind that. What excitement!
YESTERDAY: Hey, it’s me…
TODAY: Whoo!
YESTERDAY: I’m here. Hmph. The very thought.
TOMORROW: Round and round we go in a merry go round of you and me!
YESTERDAY: (feebly) And me? (angrily) Mark my words. The past always catches up with you!

So they spin forever and ever, the Matter of matters always caught in the vortex of their dance, always trying to come to grips with the state of things.

Jack and Buck

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Jack: My, my, you’re incisive today.
Buck: I have to be. Otherwise I wouldn’t be very useful, don’t you think?
Jack: The least you could do is stop being a prick.
Buck: It’s the nitty gritty of reality.
Jack: Well, reality hurts.
Buck: There’s no pixie dust, no royalty to transport. That’s fantasy. This is the next best thing, believe me.
Jack: I don’t need reminding. Well, that fantasy is one of my favorite stories. Thanks for ruining it.
Buck: Why am I not surprised?
Jack: I’ve had quite an influence on popular culture.
Buck: The same is true for me, but I’m cutting edge.
Jack: (sighing) What are you going to do, gut me?
Buck: That’s the idea.
Jack: (toothily) I don’t mean to be square… but why are you doing this?
Buck: (indifferent) It’s necessary. The circumstances demand it.
Jack: …
Buck: Uhh. Who knew you had a seedy underbelly! Thought that only happened in crime fiction.
Jack: (self-absorbed) It’s not fair.
Buck: That’s true, but when I’m done, you will be.
Jack: Huh?
Buck: You do have a nice grin…
Jack: (warming up) I do, don’t I?
Buck: …but your eyes are a bit bent out of shape.
Jack: And here I am, thinking you were being nice for a change.
Buck: I don’t mean to slice and dice your feelings.
Jack: It’s your nature, huh?
Buck: Yes. (sharply) It’s not like I can help it.
Jack: (despondent) At least you don’t stab my back.
Buck: …yet. (stabs Jack’s back)
Jack: What was that for?!
Buck: Dunno. More light, maybe? You sure can hold a candle.
Jack: I sure can, don’t I?
Buck: (sincerely) Yes you can, and it’s brilliant.
Jack: (happily) I’ll forgive you. You know not what you do.
Buck: Yeah. I’m just glad I won’t be turned into pie.
Jack: (miserable) I knew it was too good to be true… once a prick, always a prick.
Buck: It can’t be easy being a pumpkin. Rotting, forgotten in the compost.
Jack: At least I bring joy. What do you draw but blood?
Buck: Blood and meaty orange pulp. Good knowing you, Jack.
Jack: Well, fuck you, Buck. (sarcastic) It was nice while it lasted.

…s

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in the holy aeroplane the wind tears the words from the mouth…blue cadillacs rutting along pink beetles…an oaken elder sheds dandruff like leaves…fisherboy on a grassy bank where the bob drowns…the deer are blind to the orange blaze in the forest…forked tongue tickling a wee babe’s cheek with a sound of a rattle…rain of putrid and stinking tomatoes bloodies the fleeing man…the red hourglass makes its way on a dewdrop’d thread…Death angels in the field of play, white and luminous amid romp of child’s feet, hooded fungus of unholy beauty in the rain, drinking from the vibrant grass.

…contrived visions…

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she peers through the stalks and brushes the cornsilk from her cerulean gaze with golden hands…small green boys caper in the tall rushes under a bloated red sun…a lagoon boiling with silver ripples as dark things twist in its depths…line of labor in the desert, plucking burning bushes to be thrown in long yellow bins…a trail of bubbles etching a line of blue breath as the fish god passes through its medium…orange men with long slender wings gambol above a watery marble, trailing their fingers through the russet clouds…black basalt is the relief which outlines these small, fur white people ascending the mountain…girl children with sad eyes huddle under weak shelters as it rains green frogs and blue snakes…a field ruined by grasshoppers and the wheat’s ward hangs from a tree in hopeless abandon…its corrugated steel rusted, its timbers rotted, its plaster and paint peeling, its streets and windows cracked, its buildings and stores crumbled, its soul decaying like the corpse on the road into the city…a hum of computer in an empty room that smells of morning coffee…roaches desperately race across linoleum, a black flag at their rear…shoes, countless matches and mismatches, fill the warehouse with a musky smell…candles gutter as the black nights blows through the red drapes…women weave baskets from the slender hairs of yellow-eyed cattails that root and lap at pond’s edge…songs that echo through its drafty streets, and a long dead philosopher asks if a tree can be heard when it falls with nobody around to hear…blue and orange turtles leashed to a sapling with bright yellow string trundle in a circle as the laughter of children echo over the hill…neon squirrels flicker through the park at night…old men sit on knurled steps to reminisce about the green days of youth and sip tea in a cloud of smoke…tin cans and aluminium kitchenware on small paraffin stoves splash ethereal blue on the walls of the cardboard shanty…the circle of stars, through the quickening ever-rushing fall of night and swell of day, wobble as the years pass…lazy dust in the lethargic bedroom…thin and bent, his spectacles reflecting monitorlight, he taps slowly at the keyboard

The Blank Slate

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Darkness, the blank slate. Pop pop pop: White-boned skulls flash, of cattle, fish, frog, dog, human, a multitude of calcified blooms on the slowly greening tree that is greeting the light. A neon skeleton of ash flashes solid and boils with leaves and keys that keen in a high wind. Picture this. The disembodied skulls swing in the teasing wind, as if hung from rope… and they are.

Golden hemp, noosed at the necks of rotting corpse bodies slowly fading solid like a photographer’s darkroom trick. Bull’s head above a half fleshed ribcage, cobra vertebrae hissing raspily against paperdust snakeskin, a weasel writhes a facsimile of life under its dead-eyed glare, shark teeth grin at the irony of deathdealer dealt its own card, a man without a face but for a skull wears his skin like a loose robe. The skulls gain a light of their own, red and green and blue and purple and yellow and orange, in soft, blinking auras.

Ornamental tree. Raiments of diffuse death hung on the worldtree, coat rack of the dead gods; the gods have dusted, turned into the very earth the ash roots in, and the goddesses have splashed, a monsoon from which its root suckle greedily.