I remember…ice. Cold white ice in a bowl on an old wooden table. Me reaching in and taking a piece of ice from the bowl, putting it gently in my mouth, standing there.
A dead fire. Grey powder drifting on the breeze around me. Plunging my hand
into the heart of it, where glowing coals lay waiting.
People looking at me from behind a glass barricade. Me smashing my head
into
the barricade, hoping for a reaction.
An orange, rotted, swarming with fruit flies, baking in the piss yellow
sun.
Cigarette smoke rising beautifully before me.
A continual, malicious hum in the air, rising and falling like the breath
of
a great, sinister machine.
A child on a makeshift tyre swing beneath a great dying tree.
Sweat-soaked sheets and a pain in my chest. Coughing up blood.
Cured plastic.
Belching haze, hissing.
A marginal reminder of a rusted hinge.
A triangular mirror, reflecting the clock on the wall showing a quarter
past
one…or a quarter to eleven.
Brown carpet, clean, but worn flat in places, the binding fibre coming
through.
A dusty mantelpiece, with a clean radius near the edge, sticky, dark red
stains, where someone has rested their wine glass.
Cobwebs in the ceiling corner, with the exoskeleton of a spider resting
there eternally.
White shirts hanging on the clothesline, fabric suspended in the stifling
autumn afternoon.
A power cord, without a socket.
Ethereal soundscapes.
Tendrils, reaching for me, embracing me.
Destitute fate, tied and shocking in a net of smoke.
A rickety dressing-table, weighed down with unused cosmetics.
Filthy throw-rug, rolled up in the corner.
Leather sandal with a broken strap.
Rotary telephone, disconnected.
Splinters of glass from a shattered ceiling globe.
An air vent, concealing death.
Lifeless candles.
A sense of loss, perhaps.
Yellowed newspapers, brittle and crying.
Unmistakable shadows.
The smell of stale coffee.
Chocolate. Dreaming sickness.
A chair, smashed beyond recognition.
Cities, melting and bending in the sea.
A creaking floorboard in the southern end of the room.
Ash, spilling from the fireplace.
A forgotten face in a blistered photograph. Beside it, a damaged typewriter.
Raging at a black nothing.
A thousand parading mice.
Waiting for something.
Utopia.
Hey psychopomp…just curious, where did you come up with this stuff? Just dark musings or something else? I especially like the “breath of a great, sinister machine”…very cool!