Creepers stand silent in white nightdresses. And I have wished for sharks in this lost at sea.
My skin peeled back to bone, are we born like this, forged again in the honesty of dragons?
Life is not a choice. Death is buried with the boxes. I count its intimacy in raindrops.
On days like this I would surrender to the fall of familiar fever. Overrun with shaking, heart racing, sweat dripping.
Even now I taste it on my lips.
Hell is patient. Spike another drink. Deal the drugs of madness.
Creepers stand silent in white nightdresses. And deep underground, a self prescribed king double drums and dreams of quarantine.
©2017 jac fosyth
in summer starlings
sky-flesh falls, wild with tattoos
but even here, here
on this ground of melted snow
I cannot hide my footprints
Summer & Snow prompt from: Ramblings of a writer
Truth is a cunning dancer. Smoke over fire, its drums beat out my heart. And I quantify my verdicts with the naivety of their restless pounding. Armageddon was scattered once, dismantled in the bunkers of preparation. I drive this life hard. Peace is not enough, sleep is not enough, death is not enough, for those who chase extinction. The gunman pulls another trigger and a dozen night-birds corrupt with the echoes of my lament, their feathered artillery dragged out across the silence of 3am skies.
And wrapped in the blankets of my insanity, I divide by five and measure their distance in lightning storms.
I remember punk. It came crashing into the music industry like a crusty, cabbage juice dripping garbage truck. My Dad hated it. I loved it. But I was also English, and the levels of spit necessary to maintain a place in the mosh pits was beyond me. So I did the next best thing: I bought a black lipstick, covered myself in belts and buckles, dyed my hair and dreamed of a shirtless Pete Murphy.
I love the writing industry, but it also frustrates the hell out of me. Where is the quest for art in a industry driven by profit? I have turned to Kafka for solace, and so seems I’m seeking out punk again in this quagmire of manufacture.
Which brings me to Crone and the night whisperings of, The Perilous Reading Society.
A few months ago I had an accidental conversation with the shockingly talented Ash over at Ash N Finn. It put the idea of showcase blog into my mind. A place to promote the fringes of this art, the non conformists, the poets and writers who play around on the edges. With TPRS, you never know what you’re gonna get. It may not be what you want, it may be hard to fathom, it may be exquisitely weird or breathtakingly beautiful, there may even be spit. But as Ash so eloquently said, ‘I always enjoy a bit of perilous reading.’
It’s all a bit scary because Crone has been such a delight. At first I was gonna run it as a sister site, but quickly calculated that I would then need at least 26 hours in a day if I wanted to maintain any degree of human contact (and Vitamin D). Obviously a merger would be a better idea. So Crone will become The Perilous Reading Society over the next few days.
In true punk style, I will keep on blatantly promoting my own stuff, I’ll just promote other work too. It’s nothing new, there are plenty of sites out there doing the same thing. And if it’s a total disaster I’ll revert back to Crone and we can all go down the pub and pretend nothing happened.
I need to step up my game. Damn. I’m scared. Why am I scared? Where did I put those safety pins?
You inspire me
with your target driven growth
but I’m not sorry
that the vegan bolognese
won’t wash out of your new shirt
Inspire & Growth prompt from: Ramblings of a writer
Hivemind crawls. One more outline breaks on the city skyline, and I corrode at the loss of its platinum repose. Was I born to swarm with bees? To cast-out on the profile of ten thousand articulated shadows? I feel the whisper of it on my breath, secret and bewitched. The beast murmurs, primordial with the forgotten substance of this fragrant light. Nails are drawn, torn, across a pale, crystal sky. I long to be taken by the wind. To fall with the stars in gilded horizon. To taste the scent of honey, wild and stolen from the sun. Hivemind crawls. One more outline breaks on the city skyline, and I am bound winter with the torment of these silent hedges.