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The Dragon-Child and the Sun

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  • The Dragon-Child and the Sun

    Charity in its truest sense; the ability for meaning to gain a heightened hold; golden blossoms spring forth from dark mud; laughs in wild winds waiting for the musk to drip ... in the eyes of something massive, heavy breaths and shooting glances. Honoring the living spirit, alive in the night and day alike -- divided and undivided like them. Remonstrance of an accordian moment; then discord through the curtain of night; an egg might be cracking; say it's not the dragon; we fear them all the same; no matter if the breath be fire or of ice; we listen as the frost overtakes the night; while the chips fall from the sky, and we have our mouths wide open. Like hearts. Having the heart, and the ability to set it forth like a fountain, a cannon, a volcano you thought was only a mountain. Let the gushing sweetness cover the giant earth, as footsteps rifted in folly crack in thundering pangs, the laboring earth. Her screams fill the trees, and the shaking branches thrash in torrents and hurricanes. Her lifted up skirt and her lips spit poison, her snake-like limbs moving further, growing despite what isn't there to touch her ends. Like the prayer cast from the heart made of lead, of iron, of metal that just needs to be heated. Hear my cries, my pleas, my prayer: left alone in the night, I sing the same child ... I am the same singing child crying along with the nightsong of frost, the host of our chariot, the little budding leaf upon which sits the dragon-child. Little claws break the skin of the leaf, and deal such blows as would kill any animal around ... soon enough. The eyes drink in the terrible darkness -- such terrible depths and the names of which -- everything in between -- our drunken kiss in the chance, to watch the lightning stretch past her lips:-- and snake past the hinge of wattle, in the throat of roaring fire spewing forth from hers. I can't find whatever I thought was myself; I have a longing to be lost beneath those wings, in the shade of her Night. That song of her untired heart beating forever ... now ... ceaseless. Liquid skin cannot be broken, but her voice is still simmering. Just smoke now. Her smoky lips. You can hear the glittering laughter. Jewels tongue our precious being in the ancient song of the Darkest Sun. Living metals cast forth to froth and spit out each impurity:-- to melt again this passionless mould, to break this part of the night -- completely in half. To watch the bubbles break black abscesses; black death, the night's evil heart exposed, in a witches goblet the bloody wine, her swollen lips chapped with kisses; no breath;-- breathless from your kisses; and the death of the liquid in her mouth. Single me out, before I can even understand what might unite: the sound, the being in predilection, bends; sort of waits for its sack ot secrets, like ore that travels in rings of veins, geometrically spread across the land. Hills of phosphorescence, where she steps and earth responds. Little whispers through the grass, and healthy sprites majestically green dance. In a blur of a dizzy dance, hungry for knowing you; the weight of distance;-- touch what this is. This is nothing I personally was taught. All of my dreams, my enlivened visions, charcoal dust before the creator's brush. The brush crumbles in my hand; my hand also crumbles. Left like the silence which my breath feels as so entirely cold; my dilating pupils see the night alive with the song of God. God's song. Sung by his sons and daughters: that is all we do. That is what we are. Here, this eternal dance. An opposite; ...but a foe? I do not think so. Sands cover the face. The face is the color of sandy deserts. The silk of your lips. I can touch everything, except the poison things. I have eaten from the Poisoned Tree. I have drank the well of endless thoughts. I have expected forever ... in some way or another ... to cover me like sand, like the chopped up bits of what day and night let through them: endlessness, forever, as cold as the stars the singing God has put into being and placement; there where the hurricane swelled, and the night broke like a rock; and you were born. Dragon-child, soon to be more terrible than all the nights combined. But with your bloody fire-tongue you shall paint the bodies so boldly with the lack of shadow; that the truth of being burn them, and the extras be rent -- in twain. The bodies we built from the pain. All of these parts electronically connected: all of the bits and pieces reflecting ... coordinating in tandem these feathered moments we move through. Silence. Is there enough to live ... eternity? Silence. That is what this is. Make the decision. Breathe fire through the cracks in the earth. Feel so near to your face the air, the swirling air. And when morning finally dawns, after the longest night so far ... then you will know he truth of what the Sun's light can do.

  • #2
    With a title like that, how can I resist - reminds me of William Blake. To me, this piece dissolves distinctions between poetry and prose, and, indeed, between narrative and imagery. Your language here is full of poetic devices, sensibility, and cadence, yet the format bespeaks prose. In terms of the narrated activity in the piece, a reader who is asked 'What happens?' might find themselves at a loss to give a succinct answer. The best one I can give is 'Everything happens.' It could too easily be pegged as 'stream-of-consciousness'; it's more the textual analogue of the 'wall of sound' - a sheer expanse of impressions, fragments, and arresting, enigmatic images - a gathering wave. As ever, I feel like this type of composition is the matrix of ore from which a trove of poetic gems might be mined. But there is a control and Romantic intensity in the diction that demands it be taken as a whole.

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    • #3
      I agree.

      This is a profound piece of work, in every sense!

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