Elephants stained pink in brittle costume, garland adorned abominations acting as if apathetic to the appalling ambience.  Silent nights weeping over spilled water, thirty cents a gallon until it runneth over or stops shy by quite a lot.  Green screen screaming out of right corner’s view, yellow streak blazing through to the end of sight.  A red cup stands vigil next to the clarifier of windows, screen protecting the blue substance from liquifying into reality.  Ossification of thoughts run rampant from nearly a year’s time of madness, ecstasy, and confusion.  Abandonment reigns supreme amidst the chairs and couches in the dying room.  Living sounds churning from yonder, not sure what’s right when only one is left, pain of aching quality presides within the shoulder.  A breath is drawn in, chest rising, stomach swelling, blink, blink, can’t seem to think.  Two white spray-bottles hard standing fast next to decapitator of autumn melons, discarded after malevolent carvings.  A screen that once displayed now reflects, music to my eyes is silence in my ears upon a cream couch.  Red stocking limply sagging upon a beige flatland, vertically placed if standing straight.  White board turned color board with age and disuse, impossible to refurbish and burnish anew.  Itch forms below the line of sight and is swiftly rubbed once, twice.  Tiredness forms in the forearm from resting, impossibly thin paper thoughts shredding through the secondary wave of rub rub.  Sniff, rub. Blink, blink, blink.  Tears form from what? Not sadness, no one is sad here.  There is nothing to think about, but the whole world of time past to lose and to mourn, to expect exultation in the new thought that the rest want to impose.  The lone fighter howls into the wind of sands’ time, echoes lost to the ages of gnashing of teeth and murderers of crows.  The complicated history of a compounded memory strives to knife the back of a foe, back roll into a thresh of wheat, golden grained hair suave boasting in the wind – success.  What is going through the hows and whys of living, where none have tread softly and all have trampled hearts below, thinking them hard marble but were actually marshmallows.  Lamb silence terrifies the living, dying breathe in anticipation of the new souls captured for feasting upon the twisted, tormented wave of delight.  Entropy rains down upon the order, chaos manipulated by disaster until sound is stopped.  The washing is done and the drying begins.  Oh, there it begins again.  Five more minutes.  Scratch scratch.  Awkward interlocutor realizes that he is alone, talking to himself.  Lies, deceptions, theories, hopes, all dashed to flint by ignited passion, candle wicks burning with forlorn melancholy.  The fire rises until smoke evacuates the dying and overwhelms the living, passing time into hourglasses of sand and streams of falling water.  Gravity runs no course here for stretched hours become years of experiential catastrophe, blowing a nose seems like a good way to pass the seconds.  Thirds of birds flaunt themselves in front of others, yearning for recognition of some kind of cycle stopped.  Or has it just paused.  The water is still running, not quite over yet, the drying will commence soon.  Biting cold alerts of emails appearing in the right hand corner, thunderbirds screeching out a line of ten, stools reminiscing on all the ends of those they’ve known.  Desperation floods the dry cracks of tin, rubber under plastic as a new life begins.  Shaking white by force on the keys, locked up memories stored within random phrases of words, never to see light of day until day is grey and gone to sleep.  Coughing coffins belch out tunes of dirges turned melodies, sunrays lighting up the night sky through moons of envy and stars of shame.  How warm it is outside.


7 thoughts on “Purge.

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