5 thoughts on “…. — ..- … . .–. .- .-. – -.–

  1. what do you want to play? “…hallways.”

    …Ever see yourself doing something in the past and no matter how many times you remember it you still want to scream stop, somehow redirect the action, reorder the present? I feel that way now, watching myself tuffed stupidly along by intertia, my own inquisitiveness or whatever else, and it must have been something else, though what exactly I have no clue, maybe nothing, maybe nothing’s all… it doesn’t matter anyway. Whatever orders the path of all my yesterdays was strong enough that night to draw me past all those sleepers kept safely at bay from the living, locked behing their sturdy doors, until I stood at the end of the hall facing the last door on the left, an unremarkable door too, but still a door to the dead.

  2. fast slow fast fast slow

    We never even kissed, or looked into each other’s eyes. Our lips just trespassed on those inner labyrinths hidden deep within our ears. Filled them with the private music of wicked words.
    Hers in many languages, mine in the off-color of my only tongue ntil as our tones shifted and our consonants spun and squealed, rabbled faster, hesitated, raced harder. Syllables soon melting into groans or moans, finding purchase in new words, or old words, or made-up words until we gathered up our heat and refused to release it, enjoying too much the dark lane which we had suddenly stumbled upon.
    Prayed to, carved to, not a communication really, but a channeling of our rumored desires, hers for all I know gone to black forests and wolves, mine banging back to the familiar form, that great revenant mystery I still could only hear the shape of.
    Which in spite of our separate lusts and individual prize, still
    continued to drive us deeper into stranger tones, our mutual desire to keep gripping the burn fueled by sound, hers screeching, mine…I didn’t hear mine, only hers, probably counter-pointing mine;
    A high pitched cry, then a whisper dropping unexpectedly, to practically a bark, a grunt, whatever, no sense anymore, and suddenly no more curves either, just the straightaway.

    Too bad dark languages rarely survive…

  3. Nothing defies them. You will never find Mark there.

    Of course these are only images, my images, and in the end the end they are born out of something much more akin to a Voice, which though invisible to the eye and frequently unheard by even the ear still continues, day and night, year after year, to sweep through us all.

    Just as you have swept through me.
    Just as I now sweep through you.

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