“Ringlets”

Eyes open sluggishly to a room etched in shadows. The definition of things is distorted by the film of dried salt and illusion. Gravity has increased so much so that every fiber of its being is held firmly to the place it tries to observe from. It’s like being limbless in a pool with no way to stay above water.

The eyes now open see a lack of substance. Visual technical difficulties spurn more fear of what’s really out there. Showmanship activity to pursuade to the opposite. Are there really voices here or is it another deception being concocted by overstimulated cells? It’s unclear as if yet. The air smells of decaying heat, the same aroma from summer city streets cooking dirt and sweat.

Debilitating anxiety shovels it’s ink thru the dermatological landscape. Line work debacle in shades of tones and hues. Casual cartography of flesh. Are the needles fingernails drawing closer or talons dragging further down into nothingness? Both seem to be the truth. Both views can be accepted.

Sour iron slips between teeth, over the tongue & back thru the throat to it’s final place in the acidic confines of the stomach. It churns violently, sloshing in sway to properly sicken the corpse that lay disheveled on the floor. Expulsion ensues. A cascade of crimson and black, fountainesque display in technicolor release. Emptying the tank while driving the broken, lackluster beast to a grinding halt in the ditch.

This is where it ends and begins. Over and over. A cyclical approach to the analyzing of ringlets. Following the curve repeatedly. Endless roundabouts used to corrosively correct these moments now engulfed by null.

Somewhere beyond them...the silence of negative space echoes. Boundless cold.