My Wall

Have I gone missing like the good doctor Holmes in Sir Doyle’s futuristic tale of universities, mystical chants or disappeared into the flag without value flying in the wind like dense teeth, like some black jungle smoke from the papal conclave after the first Armenian presidential general election sings me into another vision before midnight on this midwinter tuberculosis night, a vision is shown me as I ascend my horse, my staff, my wife, my children, as I descend from all of my nightmares to unlimited freedom. Freedom shapes itself brilliantly chameleon like bits of spider web before me, ancient musical instruments play in the distance

On the back of my horse at the speed of nakedness as only freedom unlimited can provide I hear the melody of the song of the first earthly dreamt dream of man, the strings speak as if they had their tongues cut off, distant, blurry, slow and with hesitation before and after and during every syllable,

become the church, the fireplace, the ashtray gasoline cities and all the time the music follows me as if to whisper in my ear; trespass, my friend, poor over yourself once but not now, choose something from the highest point of the land, raw meat, gold and silver, diamonds and pearls, or merely a dead cadaver half eaten mole but not yet, after this first of my nearly never ending wall of tasks.

Deliver. Deliver. Deliver. Galloping over desolate deserts and thick thundra’s full of ice the color of rice, the color of surrender, more white than the actual color of surrender, but this permafrost over these steppes fakes not only their caves, their bearded women, their wooden lake, their plastic sanctuary and ice-cold fires, yes; they also fake their whiteness.

After listening to a sudden shattering of a shatter of a glass like the whole of the moon had come crashing down before my very eyes, somebody, some woman comes towards me, and she carries with her bells, bells that chime of independence, bells that chime of phony and ersatz ways of tricking jokers and jesters and magicians and talk show hosts into their endless dwelling and coal mining caves one hundred thousand miles below the frost, she comes towards me. Is that a song her mouth is forming? It’s getting colder, so cold that even this Lady of Nine of gasoline and serpentine, of oil, of wood, and incense sticks forms? Is that for me or simply to not make her stone cold lips freeze making it impossible to eat through mouth or nose? It’s getting colder darker, more black, in the middle of white. I slow down.

She slows down. I grab my staff, she grabs her wool overcoat and we pause our motion just for as long as to enjoy the moment, then after hours of visions and faking and numbness of cold we lay eyes on each other and at that moment our horse vanishes, like the great vanishing point, into the night which could be day because it all and everything looks the same here, we both know, and we both forget, when we meet, I kneel, she prays, I eat, she stays. We light a fire. Not sharing one single word.

How far do I have to tread? She begs for my mercy asks me in nearly her own voice if she can come along on my wall of tasks and help me do them quicker and more efficient as a result of a double cheeseburger inside a globe in some shipwreck, radiance, betrayal, black as ravens uniform eyes she has got without any trace of glitter that provides her mouth never to properly smile before immense pain is released from God know where. She sucks my dick, she cuts off her head in my hands, she shouts, she grunts, she loves, and cooks me a meal of wild goose but I know even one bite is enough to make me into a flat stuntman husband slaving away with rotten teeth with no glory left in any glory hole in the Galaxy, effectively delaying my wall of tasks even more, I cannot accept. I cannot speak. Like some great family secrets sworn to hide I keep my mouth away from fish, from cow, from pork, from, fish, from chicken, from horse, from fish, from deer, from dog, from fish, from the meat of a dying bird with gravy and pommel noisettes. I don’t even have a beer.

Later when she is burning at the stake, I will have to keep my distance to the same fire that made me for a brief ray of time makes me remember warmth, because this fire is as green as the ice is permanent and I could easily drown in the flames together with the beauty, I have no horse, I don’t even have a sip of beer, I just move. Move, be in motion, always, always do not forget to move, said the Ace of Spades and the Alligator in perfect harmony, forming for themselves a howling choir as the clock ticks away around midnight. My internal human clock never fails to surprise, even impress the best of men, but to me I could not have been blessed with a bigger curse, always in motion. Don’t forget to move. So I don’t.

The sun is shining down on the prairie of the land I have reached within the hour of 3, here starts and continues my tasks as they so nicely line up making the great wall of China look like a children’s act, mixed together with my heartbeat the rhythm of the explosives I carry in my belly starts to tick louder, maybe my ears just plays a trick, but as the sun is shining down upon nothing I realize. My first task is done, now I have to set free the demons of the troubled journey posing and yearning to rest in the sand together wind ants, and singing prophet’s, and sexy jesuits and beheaded marqui’es barking from inside my head, desperate to be unleashed out the way they would have been forced in. No, stay in motion. Don’t forget to move. So I don’t, I rise and heads straight for the next tasks hanging on the wall like empty bottles and shells from another Santa Claus drunken and praised my his children towards the edge of how much torture one deadly man indeed can handle.

Next task. So far, so good. So what.

 

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