What would it be like to shut off our primary source of entertainment? Most of you guys have already clocked the wicked of talent of Stuart over at Forged From Reverie. This piece of prose came out of a conversation we had earlier today and is totally inspired by Stuart’s observations in: Tell your eyes to shut up.
The ghost with two faces
I knew that the lights were too bright here. A postmortem wretches, dragging a white stick along the pavement cankers of dead men. Another restraint of storm twitches through paper bag leaves, wounded and wasted. Silent scars outline in words forged from clay, bold in the hands of memory. And even in tearing sun, I stop to find the corners of this jigsaw.
And would you fire up the dragnets of prediction? Often we lie down in the foothills when all we want is to be torn apart by silent wolves. I have looked for blindness in the darkness of seeing. Shifting stories under stinking sheets. Painting with the blunt end of the brush.
I knew that the lights were too bright here. The accountancy of shame would tell me this is fear, but in the corner of a sunlit room the ghost turns another face. Hope smiles. Still waiting for the taste of my screams.