Rant # 83

This house was solace, once, sweet intended solace for a drinker of the morning. I gathered my roof and ebony and I blended warmth into my cotton, nothing pleasured, nothing warranted. The days became untreated, raw and shapely things that withered when the world forgot them, never when the night was born, a sparse and brilliant star-scape with kaleidoscopic form.

 Then the Dawn of Nothing Mighty broke its silence on my lawn. The dew, while nothing special, took its pleasure shining blades, I glanced the glint of evil when my garden grinned that day. My garden path, the curling edges of its lips, led no more to the tulips or the rhododendron rockery; it skipped the things of beauty and it twisted in a loop just like a noose about my house, or a knot that won’t be loose. And the sky and all its looming lashes closed its eyes and thrashed and flicked and flashed the horrid ashes, wet and wicked, thick repulsive pupils pushing past the atmosphere, until two gigantic holes were only left above the world. From them fell the lady’s magic, furious, fantastic, all the hail of heaven’s spastics, also, deeper went the needles, weaving earth to hell’s tissue, each blast of blood a glue, each wound a hungry mouth.

Still and stood I knew the would and wouldn’t of the wind, I am kind, undeserving of the witch. I am kind. She may lay her hand upon the house that I have built, but never will she taste my salts or share my quilt. I lay down to fade away, kissed the nightmare she had lay for me, and dreamt of one day walking up behind her, one day rousing murder’s stake.

On my roof while I was sleeping, down she lay, to wait for day to burn her, burn her all away, and when it did, her blistered body turned to charcoal, licked the wood and kissed the mortar, sucked the stone and fucked the water. Crooked, swollen, poised, I woke without my eyes and felt the seconds flick the pin and prime the jaws.

Dispel this spell this pelting felled presence of penance and posture, commitment and torture, the quaking crust that shakes to dust my filament. Dispel the Bitch’s blackened breath, the liquid of her leaden hearth, the searing hatred, hungry, stark, along the darkness of my secrets.

I knew it all and more. Her teeth were now the ceiling, floor and walls, I called to her and said, beneath it all you’ll find me, dead, and so I spread myself into the glue, and pushed my body down and down and down until the roots and shoots of Long Forgot were reachable, and roots became a ladder to a throat, and as I pushed its clammy, oily muscles far apart I wrote, that he who finds me, leave me be, for I am swallowed, leave me be, and that, my note, was solace too.