for those who know anything about my tastes in literature, i tend to completely adore the types laden with symbolism; the vignettes so thought out that it makes your head spin with confusion of all the ways that a single word can mean in the numerous contexts given. i like pieces with heavy imagery, that make you feel like your skin crawls with every letter thud that rolls from the tongue and along the pages. often times, i feel that i should be so lucky to accomplish this with my writing, but sometimes i get surprised at the fleeting moments of what i like to call brilliance that come to me.
this first is for a solo anatoly piece. it is another dreamlike vision that should soon evolve into a mess of hindustani visions of gods, crime & punishment, heat, red and brown. i drew some images to accompany it on tegaki last night. i can only hope that this devolves into nonsensical adjective vomit, but we'll see; i just need to learn to be patient.
amber weavils wove their way down a skinned flesh back in which flickering lights danced upon like graves in a cemetery hall. moonlight candles stretched out smoke fingers who wound a story of curses and contrition, falsehoods and accusations of deeds done past present and future. soothsaying were the scents of the heavy air, clotted with an incense smoke so thick that eyelashes would clump together in tearful hugs, blood vessels engorged, a haughty dry burn, the punctuated sting of sandalwood splinters.
the second is the beginnings of a solo piece for miyahara. he is supremely paranoid, so i try my best to remember that every little detail is what he notices, and make that apparent in my portrayal of him.
The movement of eleven locks clicked to awaken the silent air like the empty shots of a revolver's roulette wheel. On the twelfth there was victory, the final blow of bullet puncture, a sharp snap of success before Miyahara Taki's door was pulled open less any further deadbolt decadence. Earlier, the thunderous rumble of a rolling knock announced a presence that caused him a twitch in the pits of his stomach-- he didn't have a good feeling about it, thus had waited until the moon signalled the tide's departure to really inspect the situation and see past a peeping port hole in the door to the real, tangible outside world. A light at the end of the hall flickered, strobing a soft beat to the time signature of ⅔/4, L'artisanat furieux spoken in a series of flashing florescent with undertones of the constant red drone and electric hum from the neighboring fire exit sign.
i plan on tying in the poem quoted, Le marteau sans maître. but again, who knows when i will actually get my act together and finish this stuff. i suppose i feel the most verbose in the mornings, however, Dir en grey's new song VINUSHKA has also been a great inspirator/motivator to my cause.
hm, in rereading, i used that flickering light shit in both passages. bleh.
