May 25, 2013
1: 28 AM

Strings

A thinking man, flipping a pen between fingers, that rolls, and rolls, so swift, so vicious, to the point of maximum dexterity, slips and falls on the floor, slides to a stop, fuming to the top from an edge like a curvaceous, ghostly smoke elegantly unleashing its presence, suddenly boxed in a container, suffering from void, turning into droplets, purified off all vice, glittering like crystals as seen by a gleeful child sticking its face on a window pattered by rain on a lonely evening, spotting cars with screaming vandals, whooshing past towards a cemetery for an underworld fantasy filled with hellfire, burning rocks, streaming blood, circular orgies, stuck pigs, tainted windows, swinging doors, broken doorknobs resembling a clown’s nose twisted by bad humor presented in the court of a ruthless king ruling a kingdom oozing with poverty, prostitution, and magnanimity of gurus in the woods practicing archery with apples dangling on bald heads tied to trees that break in two by quivering arrows, going down majestically, driving the birds to the skies in frenzy, ripping through flying kites, angering upbeat kids flinging stones used by a street artist drawing graffiti about hypocrisy sold in a shop in exchange of nascent brain and fresh limbs, which sprint light years in fractions in the recurring dream of an athlete sweating away into a pail fetched by Jack and Jill falling down in turns, crying all nights, waking up neighbors performing meditation to prepare for sex involving bondage and masochism with a towering sense of self indulgence as that of a writer dropping dead over his masterpiece unknown to readers prowling on mediocrity, tearing away novels, making them rolls, drilling into the itchy ear, pushing wax through the other, to prolong dying candles that create shadows of a dancing woman thundering away steps breaking the wall where Humpty sat along with Dumpty staring into empty pots stolen from a filmmaker making pot boilers to pander to weekend vultures that prey on serpents crawling in reverse, time-traveling to the first human cheating him with a duplicate fruit, a duplicate sin,  a duplicate evolution,  confusing Darwin, pondering in Beagle, slipping, going overboard, hitting the abyss, bouncing back up, whistling along with Rose, to be saved, naturally rejected, like a puny kid in a class of bullies bashing with paper rockets launched from mouse pad into bins that recycle spreadsheets with values and codes,  slides with bullets, loaded in a gun by the shooter talking for eternity to the shootee, trembling on his knees, praying for potato chips installed in air-cooled controllers handling request and response spontaneously as a man sneezing  into a wet kerchief used to reserve a seat on a bus that runs amuck and swerves away into a river, tyres rolling like tumbleweeds all the way to a park, picked up by kids to play swing, watched by a woman of style, through the veil, netted, humming her favorite tune, adding grace notes filled with pages of desolation, despair, silence, a feverish longing, an unabashed sexuality, chaotic kindness for a man who never turned up that night when stars blinked at strollers’ highly caffeinated drink and plastic stirrers, pointless arguments on love, life and stray dogs, chasing away lonely bike riders, lifting their legs like frogs ready to jump to catch  flies that buzz deliriously around torn curtains and spilled sauce resembling a pool of blood slowly streaming away gathering all dirt en route, changing its color, growing in size, making its course, tweaking its speed, and daunting in strength, transforms into a psychedelic falls, attracting tourists in bulk, pictures in high definition, wholesome beauty registered in the eyes, still craving for something eternally spectacular, so much as watching a mother singing a lullaby to her baby that could send the most beautiful roses in the world into a bloody blur. 

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