Audiot Savant: Poetic Non-Poetry

24 Nov

Audiot Savant

W.—round, filmy and loosely kept—spat blood profusely for pure pleasure. On the sidewalk, in the halls of settling brick buildings, over green spears of academic grass, W. bit his inner lip, right side, square in the middle, and spew forth the new flow of his oft seen blood and saliva just to hear it hit.

Like bird shit on car metal sometimes. Others, it was a slow soggy swimming pool of a sound like a kid pissing down the shallow end. Those were the good ones. Their gospel spurred him on.

Wait though. On more occasions than he could bare recall some of these spitting crusades punctuated only with an old fashioned SPLAT struck him as the most disappointing, the most redundant. They caused W. to flip his gray matter in its bone pan. And reconsider. Faith?

His reactive thoughts backfired: You should quite, my man. You should just stop trying. I mean, what’s the point? Spit like life, even when infused with blood like the body, is only hydrogen atoms and oxygen atoms—only stardust. Isn’t that what they say, the humans, stardust? It’s stardust. That’s good, stardust and energy. My spit is of the stars, and I shall not contain it within this one vessel of the body.

Milling its hot cherry into the wet London concrete with the ball of his booted foot, W. crushed his American Spirit to the sidewalk. What a sensation sound gave him, the torque of soul leather on cement rubble. He could even hear that last hiss of fire and water.

Turn he back then to chipping the blue polish from his nails, while thinking that black might have been more cheerful. Such a drab day deserved more black polish.

No visible humans were walking about, and W.’s head was too heavy but only on one side, only because of the titanium plate that held his brains in. So, tilting to the left from his late Spring car crash, he saw a continuous imbalance in the visual weight of the world.

On one side of the picture, onerous squares of blank gray sidewalk framed street gutters with their yellowing Fall leaves floating in chemical-sick rainwater, prone and emaciated, weakened by disintegration, through a sewer compost and on out to a flat untrustworthy river. A river that hid its victims well.

The other side of this picture, lightened by diagonal lines and clouded by visual noise, was a localized haunting of slugs and condensation. W.’s internal fulcrum could find no equilibrium in this two-sided rendering of the actual. All was jitterbugs and tossed salad for W.

Whenever he moved along a sidewalk, and two or more humans were coming toward W., he would unwillingly migrate toward them—pulled in by their gravity. With surprise and obvious disgust the humans would archly pull away and rush past him, or flee to the opposite side of the street.

But this time, alone on the sidewalk, W. noted the unique slime trail of each slug that worked itself up to light speed at his feet. Yes. That noise they made! The succulent hiss of a trillion self empowered pores lubricating the jolly fellows’ paths across their universe of two square meters, each little dirt clod or piece of stone a star, each small rubbish pile a new planet for the jolly traveling fellows to explore in their way with antennae slowly caressing, probing, tracing the contours of every tidbit internally.

The sounds of which came to W. as a concert of saxophones blowing. He’d known that music before. Those long curved horns of the Swiss reverberated out to him from some snowy mountain memory, the only truly ripe and fitting comparison—the image of blind, cartoon-colored martins moving over the metallic soil of some forgotten planet.

Were these slugs merely space travelers of the overlooked galaxies at his feet? Aliens incognito from another dimension? Time Lords!? They could be doing anything at that speed, and who would know?

If only W. could explain to the humans about the boisterous slime-conducted astro-pilots. Share their subtle language.

Slime Drive, he would intone. Martins are all around us cruising at full slug speed to unknown sectors of the sidewalk. Look, you, a wormhole in the street; it leads to the third planet in the Dogtrot system on the other side. Think of the possibilities.

But humans would not understand, never sensing more than their input filters allowed. The unseen mesh of some intricately laced membrane keeping too many things from them; their eyes, ears, noses, tips of their fingers, pads of their feet, the bumpy skin over their nipples, all selecting only the must sanitary, mundane, or sanity friendly stimuli…!

So, W. only spat his consternation. Spat he blood! For saliva alone was not enough, too light, too watery. While W. heard the pulsing of molasses from a thousand trees, over a thousand kilometers away, the humans could not even hear their own hearts, which bestirred his soul to flight, or the murmur of their skin as it warmed and began to darken in the sun, which ignited his blood to flame.

Blood to flame.

The heady phrase evaporated as W. lit a fresh cigar, stepped off the sidewalk, and wandered into the street.

K. Shawn Edgar | Frost Demon | Slug Whisperer | Prose Poet

Dehli

18 Nov

gay-couples-all-love-is-equal-braden-summers-11

And they are doing white
Cars,
Nice haircuts and,
Broad Boulevards,

They are doing slick radio Ads,
Smooth charcoal voices,
And Western music,

Gliding with thoughts of Cashmere,

Air-conditioned Kaftan’s catching the breeze just so,
Dark glasses like reflective buildings
Perched on tight noses,

Moving forward with morning talk shows and,
Gleaming white cars,

Fabulous fingers prodding perfectly balanced power buttons,

Opulent mechanisms,
Fabulous manicures,

In Dehli they are moving swiftly,
Their stylish Sari’s airborne.

-evocative short poetry-

Overpass Ceilings

15 Nov

She Materialized from Overpass Ceilings

Pull you out
out of mouths
a mix of sounds
gradually forming
one word to rule
to override motors
to negate their noise
passing outside windows
You’re my new collection
gathered from voices
passing outside windows
She—Bright—Legs—Heat
Accounts—Forever—Sun—Debit
Focus on the secret message
coming from daily clatter
Instructions for creation
passing outside windows
I pull you out
out of colors and sound vibrations
out of commonplace mouths
to make a dreamy silhouette
brighter—dancing on crisp coverlets
touchable, tangible, a solidified whisper
out from ears to fingertips and lips
Two lips
passing out from under
overpasses
these vaulted ceilings
fleshy sounds incubating
tornados into toenails
building up from skin cells
passing outside windows
You accumulate inside
synapse snaps—impulsive glitter
passing outside windows
and there you are
tangled in colors and coverlets
vibrating every follicle
into singular hysteria
inside my window

K. Shawn Edgar | Drugstore Poet | Freelance Humanoid | Gutter Punk

Glad Body

14 Nov

Glad Body: Death is our Dinner Bell

Gallop sea
a waterway
from human cell
to human heart
to soulful fusion

Shame is naught
if hearts need cells
because cells are hearts
if people need people
floating Gallop sea together
because cells are people
people needing people who
need proper compatible proteins
Cells to people to people to cells

With various avenues
existing simultaneously
why focus on the commonplace
when better are shunned
for no reason but the main
to separate heart from humanity’s
natural need to continue and thrive

If one body passes
people need people too
Why waste cells to body to grave
when cells could pass body to body
Shame is naught if hearts need cells
Waste of body is the shameful act
Eat what you kill, they say
It applies to the entire animal realm

The charge of secondhand blood
same as your exchangeable blood
circulating from one heart to body
into the next conjoining of cells
This is our true nature only hidden
below the Minder’s false taboos

K. Shawn Edgar | Poet | Frost Demon | Transgressor

Screams in the Valley

12 Nov

Screams in the Valley

A mixture of CloNIDine, Rapamune, and prednisone is my heroin.”

P.K. Ripper, circa 2014

They came in through the screen, alabaster on a tonal level—boring, really, if you let them pass through ear to ear.

It’s only after the Earl Grey—hot—and the butter toast that their possible implications begin to emerge from the whiteness of their noise. Loud cries? No, that’s not it. Loud crying makes me think of babies and those plump, plastic drop-down tables in public restrooms.

So, that couldn’t be what I’m hearing out here in the trees and above the valley. Out here we don’t let babies cry. We don’t let babies carry on. We don’t let babies, period.

Down in the valley—with those repeated house facades balanced side by side like that ticky-tacky from pre-80’s folk songs—they let babies and the babies of babies cry. And carry on.

This isn’t that. It’s screaming. All day, and throughout the entire night. It’s screaming. Not babies.

Oh, how I wish it had only been the babies crying.

For the first forty-eight hours I assumed it was coming from the high-powered rifle range over the other side of the newest subdivision. They fire rifles at targets shaped to resemble people. Maybe, I figured, they had added a screaming effect to heighten the experience. Who knows? Could be.

Later I let the screams slip on through ear to ear, filing it all under the heading: Forget & Forgive. Bang. Bang.

That had been my trade, a job I don’t even think exists anymore. “Filing clerk.” Like the action of preserving paper copies of titles, deeds, and other documents was so important that an entire division of the labor force was dedicated to filing everything away in metal boxes, arranged in long rows, and neatly placed in file folders under various headings and subheads printed on little tags. The past. So long.

At some point during a tedious night awake, one’s mind wonders off the regular path. Survival tactic, I figure. Without its host body, the mind just goes off into the uncharted, unpredictable woods. Wandering. Drawn in by siren butterflies, harpies, and trails of sparkling dust.

So, as the screams pull my body toward the door—tense muscles pumping a hyper heart—my mind follows the fairy dust into the woods and through muddy pools inhabited by large-eyed amphibians. It’s not only pretty things that please and fascinate, the roughness of sandpaper gets the job done too.

My body, senseless, yet pumped up on meds, flung the door wide and now blusters against the plain, warm night. Bang bang.

I would stop them. The screamers. Quiet them to near nothing, so their peeps were no more than the muffled sounds of earthworms chewing in their graveyard diners.

My mind would be of no more help this night; mesmerized as it was by the pulsating orange and brown harpy wings. Friends of toads. Lilac eaters. Dung beetle herdsmen! Oh, the dense wavering forest has no kinship with simple human flesh. Play it only with the jazz steps of electrons and dragon fire.

The forest is a dreamscape. The suburbs, in the valley, a fully awake nightmare.

My body roars, To the cannon! Snooker is my game, and I’m an excellent shot. The subdivided screamers, living in their subdivisional status will come to fear me!

Have you ever met someone and thought, If only I’d met this person sooner. If only I’d met her before the change…. Well, my mind met somebody in the forest, as my body was charging off the front porch toward the Valley of Screamers.

Kim, swimming among the butterflies and lightning bugs, instantly beautiful in their glow, is a curator of subatomic antiquities; the orchestrator of dragon’s breath.

Deep in the forest she’s recreating the early human form out of quarks salvaged from severed hadrons, decorated with the skins of thrift-store leptons.

Kim.

The name—a pinpoint containing infinite dimensional structure to support every weighted possibility. And yet, its three delicate letters appearing as nothing more than slim lines in a cracked wine glass.

She pours me long slow dementia relief, a complex barleywine; its chaff staying in the roundness of her vessel as the wheat seeps through the letter sieve of her name. Drown my mouth full of KIM. Breathe. Out. In.

Kim,

if only it weren’t too late for concrete things. A house. A yard. A cat. A dog. Coffee mugs and mass transit. Hotel room keycards on lanyards. Vacations. Tattooed thighs and turntables in the family room. Sanctuary. We could’ve had an ax mounted above our fireplace. Chop chop.

Too late. Too many broken moments, spilling blood.

But is it over? Am I too far gone? Disconnected? Bang gnab.

Swooping now; swooping as the carrion bird dives, my body descends on the shiny plastic cluster of houses in the valley. They scream with ignorance and apathy.

They scream with a fearfulness that comes from too much security. Too much similarity. Bang bang.

In the nearness of the valley’s far side a rifle report eclipses the screaming. If only for a moment, everything stalls within its echo. Pulse. The absence of sound. Ears relax. Until a volley of selfsame reports, overlapping each other, rings clear. Pop! in front of me; pop! followed closely by its slightly faded and elongated self, from behind. Or all around. Repeatedly. Two by two: pop pop; pop pop—a simplified drum solo, bouncing back and forth, in headphones. Chop chop. Pop pop.

It lifts my body up, dominate over the plastic cluster of Screamers’ houses. Mighty eagle. Pick your prey. Kill the pasty suburbanites. Kill their screams! Chop chop. Bang bang. Pop pop.

A running of my feet, bare as when born, running me from home and dreamy forest, driving me toward an earlier state, a happier existence of unadorned non-existence. The screamers, the screamers. The aim of this is death. Eagle of air, puma of earth, human of mind, they all balance opposing drives. Turn it inward, or turn it toward the outside world? Pop, bang, chop. Kim. Drive. Not sure whether to fuck you or kill you.

Guide me home. I’m a blinded newt. Caught on the footpath of Screamers. Red curtain eyes. Oranges and browns. Death filling my lungs. Becoming drunk, tippling blood from their faces and hands. This subdivided lowland is my end. It’s riddled with holes, buzzing with bullets and common honey bees. All is ending.

The forest is dreamscape, echoes of which tingle my skin, and Kim can reform me as she wishes. But only if bits of my body make it back from the valley. Back home to my mind, safe in the soothing swirl of harpies and fairy dirt, amped by the bold cries of dung beetle herdsmen, and sounding now clearer than the rifles of the range. Pop pop, nothing more than the dull thud of a car door closing at your back.

Not too far gone, never. No such thing. I am no more the sum of one act, than I am the sum of all acts combined. That’s the benefit of linear time and small eyes facing forward, each day can be independent of the days coming before. Each day a footprint, bare as when born, that vanishes behind.

Ax—over our fireplace mantlepiece. Ax—in the stump by the woodpile. Kim—three little letters, never spelling … The End.

Noteworthy: What’s to Come

11 Nov

kshawnedgar:

Come on over to Pull of the Sun for a new short story. It’ll be up at abut 6PM PST. Have a read and share your thoughts. Thanks.

Originally posted on Pull of the Sun:

On Tuesday, November 11 I will post a new short story here on Pull of the Sun at 6PM Pacific Standard Time. Please join me to read, enjoy and discuss. Thank you.

By way of introduction, here is a the title and a quote.

Teaser:

Screams in the Valley

A mixture of CloNIDine, Rapamune, and prednisone is my heroin.”

P.K. Ripper, circa 2014

View original

Come closer, birdie.

10 Nov

Come closer, birdie.
Don’t mind me.
There’s nothing here,
For you to see.
And most certainly,
There’s no kitty,
Upon a branch,
Up in a tree.
If I keep still,
Maybe you will,
Not see it’s me,
Up in the tree.
I am not here.
So do not fear,
Come closer, birdie.
Close to me.
I’m waiting here,
With open mouth,
For birds who won’t,
Be flying south.

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