The fountain was a signpost IV

The world spirit rides saddleless
the weary horse beggared by vast journeys.
Clad in nothing but tattered parchments
and symbols of the new regime
scattered about the surface
of his glistening body
basking in the brilliant sun
and the primeval shine of crowds.
Among them lurks the town seducer
a pamphleteer and recusant,
clasping his manuscript
The Topology of Chaotic Undulations and the Riddle of Schein.
He shouts,
“the fountain is our signpost,”
yet now he must break loose.
Another nail quietly inserted.

The fountain was a signpost III

He no longer perceives, senses … intuits, he figures – the anatomy of the world as such, stripped of content, texture, meat and fibre.

A humbling gesture, akin to witnessing from a distance the crashing waves of shifting tectonic plates, Mythological paradigms grinding,

And the ridges froth a granular golden ocean, like a blanket of sand, or the alchemist’s vortical cloak, which, laden with the burden of perspective, from above twines cellular particles into an interstellar network of white noise.

The fountain was a signpost II

Night fails to provide disguise, half-drenched in moonlit showers. Pursuing the one good eye, guided by opalescent rays reflected in the diaphanous bowl of immanence.

He ventures a thought:
What is the hidden difference between a flow and a step, a stream carrying a hapless leaf, and frantic feet leaping through winds? One cannot step in the same river twice, they claim, still, the one same river remains as such, countlessly so, if only in the nominal stillness of the word. 

And one step too far will have the poor soul swallowed.
As the rivers branch off in murky folds of watery pathways, perhaps they again reunite in the one - a holed basin. 

And the poor soul is milled through the centre, sheer excrement in a numinous vase, and on the other side, bursts forth as a fountain – a mushrooming plume of vaporous leaves.Facts become translucid, mere phantoms.
 

The fountain was a signpost I

His story, much like man’s History, is not stirred by septic decries, and neither do voices fall gently on its ears, just as a tree is brimming with ancient power and the Alpine north winds with their claps and blows, now from this side, now from that, strive vehemently to uproot it, and with its great branches strewn round the shaken trunk, the tree itself clings to the crags, and as high as it is carried by the zephyrs of the air toward the ever-dark, so deep its roots descend into the Underworld. Much the same, his desire is stormed by assailant voices from this direction and that, from every place and non-space, and while sorrow stirs his vast being, his mind remains unmoved and each tear falls useless.

Why X Travels Around the Axis – Part 3

It’s getting cold, would you please close the window. I had to climb over her body in order to get out of bed, and as I awkwardly did so, our eyes met, and my body automatically came to rest, held in tranquil abeyance directly above hers. Why are you looking at me like that? The words issued from under her breath. I did not answer, but she was right. The looking-glass above the bed spoke volumes; the strange air of composure which enveloped and transfigured my face was altogether questionable. The pupil of her left eye expanded in a sudden dilation until it occupied the diaphragm, almost entirely obfuscating the iris, a darkened rock vehemently pushing its way up to the surface of the encircling waters. It then retracted, propelling the waves into vertiginous ripples across the luminous green disc. An ocean of possibilities. I could not be certain as to what she desired from me, whether she wanted me to linger in that position, to advance further, or to leave her in peace, so in an effort to avoid unnecessary contemplations and potentially painful confusion, I planted a carefully devised kiss on her forehead as compromise. I then shuffled hurriedly to the window. I peered out, or rather, I attempted to peer out the window, since, outside the darkness was so dense, so ubiquitous, that it was if the window looked out unto an omnipresent nothingness. Not even vague silhouettes or obscure outlines, not a single specter foreshadowing a visibly near-present existence. Nor could I discern that close to inaudible breathing of things, the dawdling, winged droning of joined worlds that remains when everything else has fallen into silent slumber. Nothing to indicate that life stirred outside the confines of the room. If it had not been for a sole persisting remnant, the last surviving proof – frost – gnawing away at my arms, as they rested on the windowsill, like an infinitesimal icy legion of pronging fangs, I would have believed that the universe had somehow been emptied of its content. In fact, the hushed darkened negation was so convincing that I began to doubt whether the world had ever existed in the first place. I shut the window, thereby erasing the last remainder of reality exterior to that of our own. Encapsulating us within a private sphere of being, entrenching a selfinclosed region from which not even the minutest flicker of light could escape. Time is likewise ours now, I thought: this would perhaps provide the chance to restructure the room, in its entirety, as we had fantasized about on numerous occasions, coiled around each other in bed.

Why X Travels Around the Axis – Part 2

A gust of wind stole into the room through the open window and obtrusively pushed its way between us as we moved hand-in-hand along the outer rim of the garden. The upsurge was so swift and violent that our arms were suddenly disengaged. When I attempted to reach for her dangling hand I met with peculiar resistance; an unseen obstruction, a wall-like, almost tangible force prevented me from reaching towards and seizing hold of her. Perhaps this was due to some mysterious natural phenomenon, a whimsical cosmic quirk that had arbitrarily sprung into this world, the emergence of which had thus far remained unobserved by science, and now found itself upsetting the pregiven harmony of two unsuspecting substances. Or, a result of the machinations of imperceptible ascetic garden-dwelling creatures, offended by the obvious display of affection. Whatever the case, between us arose an ineffable and seemingly impenetrable layer of distance. Only with considerable cunning and determined artful maneuvers did I manage to reestablish the symmetry of our bodies, which just so happened to coincide with the wind’s forcefulness subsiding. Yet, another even stranger event followed, when I looked up at her face in search of an eloquently reasoned response to what had unfolded, I found only a barren expression. She did not seem to have even noticed the scene. The only marked change of her entire contour was a lock of hair which had come loose from her bizarrely sculpted Victorian hairstyle and swung in a cumbersome rhythm below her ear, like the arm of a pendulum clock, anxiously ticking away in its solitude.

Why X Travels Around the Axis - Part I

Her voice was softly melodious and subtly spacious, drifting uninhibitedly around the room. It swam through a quiet gathering of dust, cradled by morning sunlight, and awakened the particles from their hovering suspension, sending them flickering into a restless spectacle of patterns. A perplexing array of multi-layered spectral figures emerged, conjoining and separating into pulsating forms, eventually coming together to create a vast spiral which gently swiveled around itself against the illuminated background. Through the center of the spiral I observed her eyes, those pure, glaring contraptions, locked in a lucid and steadfast absorption of their object. Though her stare was fastened with almost reverent warmth, the movement and shape of her mouth, the curvature of her colored lips, seemed to contradict the concrete affirmations of the words that poured so intimately towards me.