(This was a freewrite I did a while ago. And when I say free, I mean free. But the point of the exercise was to keep writing whatever came to your mind, so.)
Love. Was that not what Grandfather told me? It bottled and ran from me like bile from a lemon-drop throat. Or softer, gums rotted in young caramel. Foul, foul, it stroked the baby's head and silk-armed the crack in its brain. It wrapped me in the chalk-bone of its stomach. Magnesium, zinc -- prosper, and fringe the Good cape. Though the daughter of karma hunts for my ghost. Buddha-colored ink is getting on the ridge of my cuticles. Fingers, nails, stones and tombs made of fiberglass. And so they take me to keeping place where the fog is no longer bad milk and we dig on elbows. There's no way backward from the lion of hot air, or the nomadic chests of waves that cherried in snails to be swept up from sea sticks. Like children the papers were galloping, the plastic synthesis of deer feet liquid and wet from winter's goose feathers. Sins were raping laughs from sky-cheeks and knuckles bent on sleet.
Was that really its name, Grandfather? Love. My eyes buckle back at the sheer sound. Will the liquor tongue have its way for anatomy, or do I forget still? What is it, then, that compresses the dove bone up, so that they grin for blankets to heat the clay hands of earth? The hips of night so human-wed are laced -- my turn of thought, agonizing, flickering little cocaine warts boldening. Did you say they were the aging cells of the sky? Wielding those medevial beetles who ride for the war of clock-skin. Gathering, gathering, smothering to go on...
Is it that murder of love may smother, and may hail to go on? Burn my lips for this error, but blushing ant-color is perched and turned and severed on my cheek, my body the chemical that forms ashes which form words with smoke fingers. Hearing joints crack them by and snatch air, while lungs are all but swimming. Tea is flaming by its cup now, sat fighting the flirt of trap, sponging health from city muscle. And as it does, the field crow is never on time to spit fright from the beak of our brain. At one minute, idling along the coffin walls, tip-toeing on the warm black back of a webbing spider, the cemetery is spun in ballroom threads; for spirits rustle the cuts of their night dresses and numb their feet with dance around stone. I attend, I attend, and am fully meant to keep quiet and please with my jaw's security. But I am nevertheless there, and speaking indeed it ran that the never-lonely shall be summoned to less. Strung between amethyst teeth filled the necklace gap, the median smiling a priest's pistol preaching in silver winks at my chest, looming beggar that it was. Was it sweet, sweet light of saint's breath, limping on all fours from the metal tunnel that I'd banned? And was it myself or my tame sisterhood that would meet you at the crossing ankles of a one Bullberry street afterwards, yet without my shard of bravery? Meager and hindered and formed as the head of a Roman temple, you crouched with the lion's heart and air, the yearn of wolves' eyes in your sticky hands. Blood. But what was I to do? What was I to do? For it was not me, but peril near to you. Damned that the ground then split back like a bodice's leg upon realization, and broke toward concrete above and beside... Damned that I would find, once you brought time and I beneath clouds and beneath the blinking soil touched with man's refreshing horn-stab, life singing like a caged child beyond what was there.