I am bleeding technicolor red all over an ornate park bench in Central Square. I am tracing the patterns of the pigeons who walk, scrambling for food, like tiny telegraph tickers and miniature marching bands. They spell your name over and over again, and I mark them in time, chalk dots flamed white under the naked light of the moon.
You had just the color of the naked moon.
In scripts no Mohammedan could replicate they write the scriptures of your religion. Only aliens and fellow crop circle enthusiasts will make out these Twenty-Two-and-a-Half Commandments. The rain will wash away the first revision of your Holy Manual, and the droppings from the birds serve as punctuation and illumination for its flagstone pages.
I am entering the E.R.'s blazing florescent doors, barely conscious, but still clutching the bottle in my hand, and still holding my bloody shirt in tact.
I emerge before sunrise, spotless, flaming white.
your images are rich and colorful, but you may consider trying to be a little less esoteric. It's hard for me to connect with your work because most of the time I have no idea what's happening.
ReplyDeleteRight now, it seems the only purpose is to inspire a vague feeling in the abstract (which, if that is your intent, may be better suited to poetry as a form.) If you are telling a "story" you may want to spend a few more words on the concrete to help tie your readers to the events and settings that are drawing this specific response from your character(s).
I picture this scene like an impressionistic painting up close. It's beautiful, and I'm pretty sure these colors mean something, but they're too indistinct to make much sense to me.
luke-found your blogs and am linking to them from mine, if that's alright with you!
ReplyDeletekeep up the writing!