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Moon Carvings of a Sun Child First Excerpt
Contributed by
Lee
on
Friday, 8th July 2005 @ 10:15:49 PM in AEST
Topic:
scifi
|
Moon Carvings of a Sun Child
by Lee Ferris
#
“Hello tortoise. Hello hare. Hello cricket so debonair. Scurrying like raccoons as the afternoon moon looms.�
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Empathize with a sun-child. Carving in a life-tree, a petition that his night brethren might be released. The tree was not moved, though it was rather amused.
#
“Your empathy sent a signal through the symbol cut in the tree, Moon’s attention soon shifted whereas the night-sky minions could see; but not set free. For solace sleeps at night…Betrayed by the rays of the sun, the charms of our scars are carved in the dusk.�
#
“Silvery strands of hair. The dogs, they don’t care. They’ll chew the skin until it is bare. Marshmallow flesh for razor-sharp teeth. The green caterpillar has a shield. We have to yield to its defenses. The ants are burrowing in the trenches. The trenches flood over to the sewer drains. The silvery maiden felt Cerberus’ teeth at her veins.�
#
The door is slightly off kilter. The house is shrouded with filters of mist and light. The house is a shroud of mist and light. The animal tenants usually quiet are unusually loud. They wrack their heads through the stairway posts. And watch their eyes perceive the twin ghosts. They wave their watches in the air and wait for time to catch up with them. Or for time to pass them by. A trickle of a star stream twinkles in the silent creation’s eye. These are good moon dreams.
#
We received telegrams of photographic instants. The pictures of compassionate parents who preserved their infants. The man climbs up a telephone pole so he can talk to a man who has climbed up a light pole. He says he’d like to play different roles. The coating of white bear smolders. They named him polar. Operator, operator, give me a line. Connect me with a length of twine. The freshly covered snowcaps on the mountain range we’ll see to perhaps. The trough where the horse laps. We cannot be lost and disoriented for we have maps. There is a silent creation born of volcanic ash and molten la(r)va(e) adjacent.
#
In the fireplace candle-lit glow there is soot mixed with innocence snow. There are priests in white robes. Stone statues with gaping earlobes. On the marble steps lay a purple and blue tiger, the museum curator is the new-age gold miner. We have fees for the red pendulum swings perks. We have attorneys in this finite courtroom where laws are rehearsed. Let’s not give up anymore of our moon personas. For we’ll only be defeating our sanity…and without our minds we’ll be blind to the musings of our insatiable vanity. I don’t know about the proof. A partial fingerprint was on the roof. He sits on the window chiseled in his tooth. He tries to challenge reality with an alternate truth
#
Out of the womb a child is born. The automized moon is scorned. The shield has deflected as the soldiers defected. A gentler objective than mental suggestion…saved by Upright Shaman.
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“Emerald days are mine, and in these precious stones are the reflections of the many times I’ve spent countless hours in awe-struck wonder of the climate and its awesome power.�
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The deflated black balloon. We made Our Own Way through the ruins. We found many fluids and were attacked by liquid goons. There’s an old saying at the Intersection that intersects with parallel minds. Stagecoach driver eats up all the attention it can find. An odd desert phrase: Ought to catch some raze…black emerald daze.
#
Moving through the shadows on a ghost-like night, the shadow-less children play their games. They run through mesas long been deserted and they talk with the hermit. Don’t say you can’t, can’t hear them chant: In silence we’re excluded to a region of confusion. In silence so reclusive. Watch how they move. Watch them as they move through a silver shade over innocent blue. Somewhere in the desert of this town are the shadow-less children.
#
A hawk with three wings. A rainbow made of more secondary colors than primary. A raining fellow in horse rides no shade sun. There is a shade in the desert. He’s barely living. In fact, he’s mostly spirit form. He’s got a song in his heart. It came from the desert strange:
“Howdy! Are you so beautiful? Like the cup of Everlasting Life? Will you take up your cross and walk this desert strange with me? There are many small creatures that need company. A friendly face in rugged terrain.�
“Let it rain just a little on this desert strange, but not a drowning flood. Let it be the will of the Lord for our love!�
#
Long, bright stems green prickly gems. They say it’s fool’s gold. The document is sealed with wax and mold. A crumpled leaf like Pegasus’ swollen legs, tired and out of breath from trying to outrun the jaws of Cerberus and thus: camouflages wings.
#
We ate Feta Cheese dipped with Spanish doubloons. Illuminating insects lit the sky and sparkled the moon. A blue Cyclops erupted from within granite walls against the backdrop of the tower of unattainable heights he looked real, very tall. I could use a feathery pillow to lay on my straw bed for the crisp crustaceans inside of my head.
#
You must always be other things. Be a train talker. Be a brain staller. Be a phylum of consensual sensory perceptions. I’m not wanting to be taunting. These torrential splicing…Spicy hang glider: “Welcome, Cupids.� We want our totalitarian tyrannosaur on our leeching open sore. Give us a nimbprimb. An imprint on the ribcage of the gentle sage. Prickin’ my dreams off my legs. Breakin’ the trees on bowls of eggs. Do not do you need fickle friends? I never knew that the rattling would end on the depend to mend crackled themes. You must always look like jazz with pizzazz. You must always look like trapdoors in the mind of an acrobat and chimpanzees. You must always look like a yellow Saturn in a time-told breeze. The large barge…
“Charge!�
#
"I have a body, Pterodactyls hibernate in my lungs, rings on their claw Fingers. The insides of bumpkins...no shoes on pumpkins. There is a tiger in the pumpkin, grin on its candle-teeth. Monkeys swinging on a tire swing. An ox-mule leather feather in their wing. Up above a sinking: sing."
Copyright ©
Lee
... [
2005-07-08 22:15:49]
(Date/Time posted on
site)
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Re: Moon Carvings of a Sun Child First Excerpt
(User Rating: 1 )
by emystar on
Saturday, 9th July 2005 @ 03:11:56 AM AEST
(User
Info | Send
a Message)
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Mezmerising!
Huggs,
emy |
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