How like a writer is this killer? Or how like a killer is our writer, there is little difference. He stretches his limbs spread eagle over the soil and peat moss in the moonlight, stretches his neck to look at the stars swirling about the celestial dome like a whirlpool sucking him in. He sheds his skin and gleams anew for all the stars to see. Cryptic syllabile, metered out in iambic pentecost, grew like pyroglyphic crustaceans upon his peculiar tabular rosa.
He is pulled to his feet by the moon, and goes in search of a reader.
How like a reader is this victim, or how like a victim is our reader? She regained consciousness to find herself being dragged across a recently harvested cornfield. The severed stalks poked her shoulders and scraped across her back. There it is again, that hideous moon bearing down on me, she thought. Wicked leer of Moon Man. The grip on her wrist was strong, a calloused hand with hairy knuckles, thick wrist with a thick silver bracelet. A medical bracelet? His boots crunched over the dirt, crushed dried husks fallen from the plants. It never occurred to her to wonder where she was being dragged. Does a rabbit grasped by its hind legs wonder where its captor is leading it? It simply hangs in the grip of its captor, watching the world sway as it rocks like a pendulum. It might be considered Mercy, the way the mind distances itself from the physical predicament of the body when it knows it will soon be separated from its longtime counterpart.
Words come out of the dark, lighting his way like a jolt of electricity through a conductor. Are you beneath there still, he wonders, under the skin, trying to resurface after a year’s long abstinence? His fingers grow stronger as the morning comes, and the keys heated beneath their constant pounding. There’s light in the Eastern sky, a bruised backdrop for his latest work
Tuesday, September 24, 2013
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