The Smile of the Unvanquished

a good way of therapeutic note to deal with a nightmare in the aftermath of its event as to fleece its malevolent tenure, is a shake-out by the might of the proverbial pen; the crude bits of its carrion left to simmer in the floating memory should be added to the cauldron of imagination. so here we go: Woke up with one of my strangest dreams up to now. No moans escaped to the open, but my alter ego in that stark landscape painted in dirty puce an d slate tones cried out his anxiety in a shrill rapidfire mixed with anger and disbelief. Parallel to these panic-stricken antics, detached and observing, not merely looking passively from aside or above, was a part of me intently, intensely and fired by a clinical curiousity digging into the trauma. Apparently I had lost overnight all of my teeth on the left-hand side of my upper and lower jaw, which raised more puzzlement than distress and while bad enough; in view of what came to pass next, it was merely a laughable minute ...

He straightened his collar in front of the mirror, put his hat on and made it steadily to the front door. A cold shiver run through his body: an aftermath reflex that spoke of receiving clemency for the deed done and the thrill of excitement as he had about embarked in a new order of taking up his life. He was pleased with himself, with a self-indulgence that lapped at arrogance's hem. Freedom shone on him with a beatific sheen. He unbolted the door, lay a hand on the handle, ready to drink from the fresh well of the night. ''Darling, have a good time out, but haven't you forgotten something? I want a kiss, a proper kiss before you leave the poor missus alone at home!'' Her grin stretched wider than the crack racked by the axe planted in her skull earlier that evening by her scrawny jittery hubby. Slowly she rolled and raised herself from her favorite armchair. It goes without saying that the door would remain shut for a far longer duration than his ...

He went through his paperwork, his eyes did not fail to see for what they are but his mind refused to register the matter and its contents in the ordinary way as much as he would give credence to a beautiful and beckoning mirage in the scorching desert. His mind went blank. A white infinite void where in the furthest reaches a bold question mark dangled on a thin thread that struggled to keep the heavy weight at its end upright. Ink and paper were reduced to their basic substance... oil and wood. From there it was an easy jump to denote the million years of decomposition and the rousing lark with which ancient dark woods sprouted from mulchy bronzed soil. The plasticity of organic composition struck awe in his tired numb mind. And a touch of frisson, welcome like a quickening brew in the morning. Gone were the ghostly notion of his surrounding, but when he flicked his eyes for a brief moment to the window pan and saw what was reflected on the grimed glass, he was catapulted in a har...

     (Dedicated to my lovely wife who's birthday is today) Silver lining slithering across a boulder-scattered landscape rapidly in a gluttonous delirium, without a sense of propriety, only the sense of its swollen thrust taken as compass, to drown in the ghastly cold waters of a tempestous sea. Shafts of blonde mystique slitting down the dismal billows quiescently in a beatific spray, far removed of false humility, no hiccups of gaunt adversary sways her determined stride, to dress up the shivering forlorn does of mankind in the gossamer embrace of hope.

Churchill's voice drowned, while rejoicing ranks of white horses with sinewy pride pranced toward the deserted beach; her smile took hold of them and immerse itself in their briny gleam; then, guided by two pearls of wintry lark, they hailed for the bewitching great beyond... her heartbeat and the rustling murmur of rolling waves in pure synchronicity, hers though lingers in remembrance: like crystalline drops falling from some height, where ice shivers from the touch of a warm breeze...

the harrowing sound of grit as it grinds its way through the narrow neck of the hourglass; blind and pitiless time digs its own grave - from a solitary dune, slowly sinking in the murmuring ripples of quicksand, waits like a young lapwing, the spirit for his sublime opportunity - gliding over the eddying thermals his wingspan carries him alongside the languishing mirages drawn upon a vacant canvas. though he renounces all enchantments and the burning flush in the groins which would asphyxiate him in the dust bath of his impermanence. indeed his calling lies beyond the gloss, past the dreaded entrails of entropy, there about where the north star beckons, and the horizon dances with fire.

From where the sun scorches the soil to gold dust, drawn by white horses over roiling cold waters, a silver needle plunged into rock hard bedding - as green blood was spilled, the morning star withdrew, the horizon blushed; dewed petals quenched their glumness with juvenile fire.