“Above this world there is a place filled with the light of an emerald haze.” She read the words, he searched the answer, neither saw the sky receding.
Reading on: “And beyond the haze into the unlit recesses of a place that time may have forgotten, the light reminds the disembodied.”
Her: “Why are we here?” She asked.
Him: He said, “There is no answer.”
The sky went blank and their hands touched lightly…
Him again: “Skin is all we have sometimes. Skin and luster. Pain and silence or shall I say loss and forgetting.”
Her: “They both work,” She said. “This book doesn’t have all the answers does it?”
Him: “Only the ones that don’t matter, like directions to places that have moved, and the locations of unknowable origin, such as what and where? Depth and meaning of course.”
Her: “Receiving the holy ghost, spirit matter of no consequence at all.”
Him: “Yes. And if we even got there, found it all out, God patterns sequences and designs, would we know ourselves without this world, the place above this world, shining jewel light and promise?”
Her: “We won’t know unless we try.”
Together. Their bodies touched an unseen sky, the waves left the shore one more time. An egg hatched in a far away tree and a mother died for her child. A child she had never seen.
Him: “None of this matters, this looking I mean.”
Her: “Looking at what?”
Him: “Animals caressing, bodies under covers, children starving.”
Me: Looking at myself, loaded with bullets, I saw him getting angry at the lie. Her hand was colder than usual, his eyes were gray.
Him: “Something is happening..”
Her: “I am dying.” She said.
Me, it’s all me: He caught her as a wave came in and a cloud formed beneath the water, white light. It’s a message. Intergalactic imaging, holy substance. Black stains on grains of ice. I thought all rivers bled red, danced jagged wild and died into receding skies made of a suffocation blue. Shot right through the chest. He’s the one who pulled the trigger. I was alive before him. Him made of irony and clay. Him made of rivers and stone. Do you catch me, my drift? My sky made of eyes, lonely eyes that sacrifice seeing for warmth. I am alone inside this shell as vast as eternity. Yes he’s alone, not here. Not I. I am an oven. Inside this shell made of you.
I used to think that I was all I saw or that you were across the room or that I was half of any equation. That you saw me being half, aware of the dilemma. They practically shook hands to deceive one another. A deal, it’s a deal. Let’s ignore the implications of our warring, feuds splattered all over the place. Hard bodies, bodies that died somehow long ago and yet go on piercing and giving themselves back to the invisible force of denial. One corpse riding another, brittle impossible desire. We are below the other world, we did not ever figure it out. How we got here, who we are thrusting death into another hoping for more. Like love? Like a lover who lies and defies gravity that pulls everyone down and the world above us gets further away and the emerald haze becomes the throat of everyone’s failing serpent. Yes, inside the shell of that moving is a body trying to get out. Another shiny body made of a light that does not waiver or reach. Love is only a word on earth and carries very little actual meaning, it’s a concept a hope in night that might not be heavy or lonely but it always is, and it’s always a desperate word clinging to old dead things anyway. They never move apart, leave each other for a moment and yet, someone died between them, a third invisible body. A dream of God I guess you could say, the baby never made.
Him: “Did you say you were cold?”
Her: “Yes, I did. Can you still see me on the other side?”
Him: “Is that where you are? I heard sirens and gunshots…”
Her: “Yes, remember what you did?”
Him: ” I made God, yes I remember…”
Me, I remember: Bullet shells, we took it all the way home. Back, underneath forgetting before. The room love sat in like a vase filled with ashes waiting to be reborn or thrown into a sacred river. The room was silent and untouched. There was a book open, a book about a world above this one. Their clothes were all over the floor. Nothing and nobody had been touched. Only death revisited and took her back to his tunnel lined in jewels, emeralds. Until it got scary. And where I want to go is there, believing in unspoken corners, even hexes. Scared to death seeing myself alone as the one in the hooded black robe smiling the upside down moon dagger smile. Knowing myself to be the merge that has no name. Hexagon. Python. Black fabricated faces, pulled out of fires. Faces with names. I’ve become someone who suffers because of this diagram covered in holes and hot water. Answer with an answer, not cold eyes, gray anger, hopeless faces…her again, not me. Not like this. Isolation, creation, destruction. Imagination. Human stains. I will be the destroyer of time, myself lined with it. Guts no more. Of me like that…some sort of feminine entertainment, you were wrong. I was all over the place shining.
Me. A denial: I face a broken mirror, my blood. I hit my face. Slivers of a moment’s glass. I saw someone I didn’t like or love, left- ignored. Shut in a dark closet. A denial, mirror. Mother. Hurt blocks of brick, mortar light. He slams the door, with me inside. Which, I don’t mind. Quiet feet, seething timid smile, smile. Violent. Push me harder, I’ll do my thing and you do yours. Leave me alone, it’s my mirror. Get out of my room. Mother. I am made of mothers. Broken mothers stuck in my feet and eyes, forgotten perverse mothers, held inside the image. Oh no, you won’t forget me, you’ll want me, you’ll think it’s all me. Me the one rejecting, reflecting projecting. Me, the broken mirror, hurt hit hate. Gentle little wants and needs. He doesn’t make a sound, the little girl squeezes almost anyone’s hand. And you might want a literal reason for the words but too bad. And you might think ignore reject deny. Too bad. Sad timid open, literally written in reason. For no reason, I’ll twist the image. Blur the face, the voice of God. Her voice, it’s her voice isn’t it? Denial. He studies hard. Human images. Breath on paper, numbers in mind, warped we went low. Got drunk on monsters. Blow, a white line drawn on the glass table. An evil glass eyeball looking out at the room. A very fast talker. It’s not about me and you. Mom? You don’t understand any of this. I don’t expect you to. A denial. A rage soft and unowned. A martyr’s puzzle, human attempts at poetry, a little excuse hanging in sterilized blood. A footless girl, weeping because she can’t move. Mommy help me. There is a reason, a mirror. A box. He looks at the box, reaches in even. It’s a trap. She’s always underneath inside pulling on the little one. Through the mirror, magic world above us. He could have been, given her a perfect flower. Open flower, I smell pain. My untouchable mother. Untouchable meaning immaculate. Yes the one who took me to him, who I am. Where she hides in the mirror. Looking out. Of course it’s a mystery. A mire of little memories embedded in sexy secrets. Her eyes, her all knowing eyes. I can almost hear God, in her voice…when she’s not screaming crying…man, it’s a hard mess, this perfect elegant bodiless image of her. Her. Perfection, if she were mine. Floating, drifting, touching slivers of goddess my home. Nipples, wombs. Long legs. Beautiful ripe mothers, sexual counterparts of their perfect child. Fucked in circles down the dark hole, flush. You don’t stand a chance. Find her. Elsewhere. Bedtime stories. Baby smiles, little quiet voice. Drawing pictures, mommy sees the light of baby, of course she does. Burn in the light. Wake up from your nap, feed yourself. Mirror on the ceiling, born again. Slapped in the face, no face. I forgot you. Me. Broken mirror. I broke the mirror, over your head. It’s for you. Blind, like before eyesight comes. To this sunlight, I’m a shadow of course, a loud unwilling shadow. Collapsable, unappeasable, destructive and sharp. Go another way for solace, nighttime stories. Horny moon Mother, there are many faces that might work besides mine. Violent, denying, useless convincing. There isn’t any face but your disowned pain. Mommy and someone else, just not you. And it’s not going to be me, no. No more me. Mother Fucker. And stop thinking it’s all written to you. You’re not the only one she suckles. Honeysuckle. Nothing remains but afterbirth and stitches. No mirror. Nothing but desire for her. Honey. Mother. Come back. I’m inside. Let me back inside. Your eyes. Let me ride you to heaven. Sick stuck silence. I can’t change a thing. Denial, it’s a denial. It’s her hell really and she’s hot. It bothers me, mothers who brood and think of only themselves. I pushed him, her back in his toothless face. Who cares what you think this means. We both know who she is. We both know where hell leads and heaven lies. I’m talking to myself, don’t worry. Endless child. The womb spits out old content. After birth, it’s over.
After death, it’s only the beginning. Enter the emerald haze. Where we talk and agree, console and compromise. Discuss and understand one another. Deeply so deeply it hurts and sends chills down my spine. Me again, moving lightening because I have no choice, throwing down violent light at myself from above. The floating haze, watery, no outline. Barely lovable,
ripples of confusing sound. Currents of electricity, kill this dreamer. He’s making you up. Take her down, she’ll destroy you.
Me: I rose above both of them, bolt of jolt. It’s inevitable, the end of this fantasy rub down…strike the characters. Hard like corpses anyway…heart? What? An organ that lives in the cavity and gets ignored and then dried out and eaten anyway. Not by me…by each other.
Above this world there is a place, where he took me, and I took him back. Story that goes on telling… murder, godchild and endless light. Love life death and dying as if there is a distinction. Mother lover sweet open wound, infected…as if you see me ooze at all.
On the pages, as stains and nothing else.
Me, the destroyer of human pages. Sharada Devi