Loop-d-loop

Loop-d-loop
When it has ended, it has ended. To liken it to a Luiz Bunuel creation is probably being too generous. Constructive degeneracy and absurdity phantoms conclusions silently . . . asleep?
(Squelch sound . . .) a knob turns and then there is Morse code . . . the knob turns and 410376 checking in and then there is code . . . is that a go? roger on the approach, over . . . this knob turns and then there is silence.
for the knob was well greased by the best intentions of both men.
The original intent was never to harm, but rather to inform. But like many other well intentioned projects, this was never well received. Instead the sky seemed to open up over both of their heads and the gracious and engulfing insults came straight away like the buttered cobbles that they threw at the rubbish men on Sundays after church clattered from the rooves. With a swift descent, the implications of their plans fell into quick disarray. First, the vicars wife became violently ill in the midst of his sermon. Many eyebrows were raised. Then, old Tom, the cat came screeching around the corner with his tail on fire and howling like the wind in March.
What was happening, but the deal with the devil that was met without the slightest scruples nor supervision of the details involved. Far be it from me to cast aspersions, but they knew that they were screwed over, suckered and screwed thricely, punched in the kidneys and then spat upon.
But when the devil drives a deal, he does it without any compunction to do it with fairness nor obligation to his actions.
And, back again, over. good niht . . . nigh the total sum of this rest might carry me over, over. An emergency, when I am awake my legs I’ve thrown above the hole miraculously, I can run. A brief light appears there and I feel I can reach it in a sprint. Bounding out now, fleeing from the radio set, into the waiting arms of a well trodden path. I have been here before and latral punching revives the blood flow to my hands. A shot (squelch sound . . .) Alpha four- six- one- seven- nine- zero- there should be rescue vehicles there now (belch noise) come in over the wire at point- eight o. Oh. Oh yeah there has been or was a deal made I think.. . a rain of fire and punch drunk with the mistake, why did I forget the pulse of your viscious mound of venus, your rich folds of flesh in their violent symmetry. Oh guilt, my heads on fire but the rest is going numb. Foul eyes, I can’t see.
My feet are so near hell that they are growing cold. My feet are on a footpath to the nether regions in my cold, cold mind and soul. It is a trip that I never thought that I would make in its entirety. Oh, and look, there is Judas so far away from me, but like the light that reaches from so far away in the coldness of space from distant galaxies nebula and pulsing areas of so much infinite sadness and fear that we as human cannot ever know what lies beyond our brows.
If the circles of hell are concentric, then so too are the descending paths towards the tightening lassoo of the weight on my mind. The deeper I go, the farther from the sphere of knowing what I will think of next lies. Look at that. Was that my hand? Erupting in fire? Look at those shapes and how they erupt with the fire that burns within my hand.
Right until the time they strove to have their throats slit, what one would call ‘Professional Hand Tuning.’ Fiddling with the front of those pants, the projects “uncle” began teaching this lesson from the confusion of the Northern Kingdom.
The hemispheres of my mind, . . . memorizing the moment the bullet tore through my blousing, the puff from the down of my coat softly exploding startle great flocks from the auditorium. Unusual turn in intersection syntax, accidental violence the throws of my charming drama.
Those pants frightened the brethern: the breadth of them, the cut to accentuate the relative girth of vertical pulse within the diamond of sinister warmth. Canned heat, heat that kept the campers warm from the threat of censure. Today, I think I’ll temper the moment with malice.
For the fire of the moment pales in comparison with the ice cold calamity of the deals and events leading up to the moment when we met Him in the frozen wastes and nodded our heads in agreement to the deals struck behind which rose the mountains which spewed forth the volcanic wastes of the damned souls that became the cement for the deals penned in blood when we, He and I, shook hands. I felt my blood run chill and knew then that my blood had been sucked from me, the marrow spilt from my bones like sap from a tree.
And so it was that I had consciously, but unwilingly damned all of my progeny from that date. Hans, the late 12th century woodsman who met the black man in the woods and coveted his axe. There was an unfortunate wood chopping competition that took place later that ended with Hans’ skull split by the proverbial widowmaker after he had won the axe and triumphantly marched back into the woods the next day to fell many a tree. He fell and as well so too many more who would unwittingly draw the blackman nearest us like the flower scented petals draw the bee. Mr. Hawthorne next found the coal black man in a woods thicket in that great dark primeval of the New World. The Maypole man from then to now is not a new phenomenon. That eerie grip, of a moment of uncertainty walking in the woods at dusk, is an ancient sensation. The Wildemensch stalks us, asleep or awake.
Flogging the pavement with waterladen boots, he thought of this and then of how to dispel these demons that drove through his brain day and night. By night, even in the alehouse, soaking his head in the small talk of the keep, wringing the sheets the next morning when he awoke, they were dank with sweat. He woke nearly every morn to the smell of rotten egg permeating his nostrils. He looked up to the grandfather clock, still ticking and tocking. It all had to come soon. Could he escape by water? Somehow he knew that if he remained at sea then he would be not only rent from this earth, but rent from this grasp of the Man with no civilised name.
He walked to the docks once very few days to smell the salt that flooded his eyes with tears and to escape the presence at his back. He turned and peered now and then at a crate, behind it where the shadows lie, but the only secrets were of a headless and stinking fish body. Men jostled him, believing that he were drunk and then a call of “fuggin’ God dead black cloth, get out a the way!” They knew that he had been a man of the cloth and so had no respect for he who dwealt among the vast and incomprehensible changing and violent waves of the earth’s seas. He knew that he did not belong here, but now was shunned from the inviolate Earth and this God whom he had once knew by name. But the sea rejected him as well.
Alone now he wonders in the forest, through the valley but not to, no never near the farms. Shunning that world gave him an elation if only for a moment, an afternoon. In the lighter moments He appeared even with an unsuspicious countenance. A smile breaking across his lips his breath drawn in. From a distance one would mistake this for a hesitation. It is in fact the moment before a violent outburst, a laugh. But, in that moment before he stepped out from the forest he was overtaken by an unfathomable eclipse. The Inky Shade was upon him like a five o’ clock shadow. It appeared not like a malicious wraith, but rather like an accident, the spectre that creates a misstep. In this moment his mind wondered to other things. He had forgotten what made him laugh. It was, however, absurd.