Trace of collection. Zone of collision. The uprooted dearth. The moored earth. Spike heel of coagulant. Image thruster. Spool of the unusual bindings. Soft padding. Dog howl echo. Musical dart of the puttered gas. Capped and flogged. Amassed and shuddered. Brother. Lover. The taste of cool air. The sprig of a spring of step. No clocks but in clouds. No thing but in a drivel of travel.
The face of abandoning the lesser temple. The formulation of flickering heights. Shackles of thrall like coin these stones. These rocks and ancient molars a mutation before elevation. Upright. Bold. Jigsaw and you will miss it. The way their browned fingers collapse in dust. Starbright in the sunshine. Quiver. Shiver. Slick down hair and pat the scrape of insect plating. Maintain silence. Entertain durations.
Canine fascination. Abjuration of pawprint and a jarred frenzy of jaws. Hair. Spots. The language of tracking. The trekking of the bestial. The heckle of the hound. Menacing moments hold their own brief interludes. Scamper and scantly the treads swivel and mimic a creaking bone wrack and tropic chant. Spill your guts. Mess your mind up. Wind your womb imagined from blackened birth.
So goes the slow tone. Mowed or prone crawl through density. Slick slant into oral manipulation. Matriculation moment to moment, dome to dome. Ventriloquil or velocity. Or ventricles left out to rot. Many secrets in these woods. Many peaks and precious handling to be found in the gaze of the thick, muddy moment. Cut down arterial vantage. Ripple of adversity. Dance of greetings, goodbyes.
Edge as in creeping as in forth as in a froth of dryness of a mouth of kindness. Kick in the pants. Shuttle to stop. Slop of imagination. Endless ends. Forever the fronds. Forever fending. The fenders as well. The wells you do not see. Mountain trickling dainty. Every mood a shift plucked like a hair plucked like a fruit plucked like nothing. Absence. The long road. Your voluntary spasm. Your mutual benevolence. Like a forest, you giving.
Up at the pique at the front of the fort of the royalty of spades. Spades and pickaxes. Long turned turmoil. Boiled tumultuous. Mix up and flavored through an aging process. No humidity here to care. No horned rage or billing. No sales. The end of the leather. The process is a pinch of sculpture. Moving over. Rendering completely. The solid sponge or chance to change springs. Boxes. Who’s the boss now? You dead king. You’re dead.
Cringe. It wasn’t supposed to happen. It was supposed to be a blending, not a disregard. No arc. No journey. No keystone. No capstone. No flush. Wrong direction. Wrong transition. Animated faces of skeletal propensity. The lingering of the tongue. The cooing and the lazying of the lala. Limericks of eyes and eye shadow of natural shading. Cast down before ye. Bring down before ye. Bring to yer knees. They sense the ways, these natures do. The naturals leading us alphabetically. Bomb us with language. Letters understood, flashed away, regrettable.
Forgiven it’s time to enter pits and carry bounty downward. Toward earth. Toward surface. Toward portal. Toward portents and portending. Prefix demands suffix. Affixing the banner or the badge. The regulation of the breathing. The untoward monopoly of apologetic entrances. Dancing the step of the dead. The tempo of remarkable anger. Take inward. Take in. Create flake and shake. Let through to the opening a mellow of makeshift rationale.
One last glance as good as four hundred. Triangular epithet. Epitaph of bone scry. No cards. No deck. Just a jumble of claw scratch and throat glug. Zero words available to make certainty a principle. Fueled by second chances. No shortage of changes. No stampede or blocked leads. The lakes are wherever. Flames of daylight script. Grown rotten by contradiction. By contrast of lingering or assertive chalking up.
Very near like jigsaw. Like platformer from beyond the grave. Up and at them. Become in tune. Become the slanted eye of stone before the prickly snake. Or beetle. Or human hand with wyvern tone. It is mutual, this feeling. All in harmony. A forever on the verge of a collapse. No questions. Thorough glance of the wait-listed. Ink blot and stutter stance. The last glance of the fallen.
We dance as we know how to. We dance as we were taught. We reach out and touch the air. We reach out and fondle fellow limb. Rickety or abundant with strength. The bounty of air. The stillness of bark. This or that. Binary transpondence. Deposition of image. Chaos deposited. The slow ache to rejoin. To reconfigure. To slow and stare. Refraction of dream. Deeming the reflection positive. Wish where there would be green.
Ah, a yawn. How many things can we saw in expansion? In the realm of exploration? In the movement outward? Extension of vision? Or would the correct tongue be “visage?” Do you know the fastest way to rough palms? Do you know the closest recreation to clicked image. Do you wonder where we get our brightest banter? Through the flowing of light stream and lake echo there is the petulance of clever urge, clever birds. Listen.
Turning back is just part of the jut, the sprain of the tingle. The moot torment of the floral figment. We’ve got it, we’ve got it. We stand to be strange around it. We leverage our best roundness and breathe. Double down and unlock breath. Beating timid it stands to gain grills of grain without wind, without rain, without weather or its own liquid precipitation. Incarceration of love. Nudge of the nocturne. Gorge out. Forage.
An array or a splinter or a single mention in the mind. Windows where there were windows. Light were there was light. That was the guiding hand. That was the decision. So long ago these decisions as so now these decisions made anew. Made through knowing and owning the knowledge. Passing on the possibility. Relieving or leavening. Encouragement to uplift. Something about height and its own suppositions to be in correct form, in knowable order.
Pretense. It has all been. It has all been composed and consolidated. Into an “it.” Into an understanding. The feelings are mutual, but with what? Walking through these paths, these baths of ruins. These masks of crumples of formed stone once placed by hands and feet and eyes and minds. Trove of desire. Flow of destiny. Eternal as often as internal, external. The turnkey. The pushpin. The jacket harvest. The arrangement of matter. What to call “matter” in an arresting ether?
Balks to call forth the music of the walls. The guttural is the zooming out, stepping backward, undercut of undergrowth, motion toward neon friend, swallowing hard. Up with the arms and across, kicking out, the legs. Beckon forth some form of the represented beliefs. Come cool as a breeze, or as dampening as cloud cluster or tree shadow or tree smell. The density of all senses here, not just your own. The intensity of all attitudes here, not just your own.
Every corner must round. Every chapter must lead. Through to the next. Utter under touch. The passing of footstep and bramblebreak. Tepid hue but still a view. A learning. A lurch. Thread of rooftop. Hollow alleyways. The silence, and then more silence. Slow and steady the traveler of the quietest recesses. A music of bubbling rivers. Cylindrical ticker of mysteries. Thicket and thicker still in grandiose emptiness.
For the submerged. For the lost. For the unresponsive. For the succumbed. For the sucking of the water body to spoil down the hardy. Gone the relinquishing. Gone the transference. Now the bellow of the rapid decay. A fallen haunt brimming with grace and a partial pale. Players beget the prayers. Monks long since stumbled on beyond. Pitters and patters. Platters of absolution. Quietude. Noise of the entire quantity of existence. Summation.
Room for the fickle. There have been mistakes. But still a stain of kindness. Chance to break memory. Chancellor of Mouth Foam and Wan Sway. The wand is a camera and the cloak is the various sprays. Far from arid. Estranged of sun glow. Yellowed or marrowed by the twitch of journey. As ticklish as a smarting chili. Condensed or condescending. Closeting. External facets. The spiral of the eternal. The wobble of the pastoral before a stolen set of hands.
From the arch to the crevice to the close proximity. From the horizon to coarse touch before it. The understanding and the undulating. Up and into the utter shock. The crystal geyser. The miser and meander. Take what you have come for. Tread heavily into the fester of forever. Take stock in limitless timelines giving birth to breaths in waves as plenty as a foretelling.
Because every story deserves its structure revealed. Because every rant deserves to be reduced. Because the irrationality will always bend before its picture painted clear. Thoroughness to come after twin faces. The alacrity of the wild. The ferocity of the collected. The centralization will be as bloody as our internalizations. The memory will be chiseled with tools made of bone and tendon. A trepidation through attachment and revealed seams.
For the raw will be alighted. For the roots will be an exposition. Cavalcade of growth. Each addition micro and macro. Unison. Trend. Fitting. Folding into and expeditions. Clockface of earth and stone and wood. Of touch and taste and smell. Precious. These meetings and rituals. These standings and obligings. Frightening into form. Coupling into wanderlust. Fluster through vetting and admiration.
And when it comes to the term there is the beyond. And when it comes to the term there is yonder. There is yon. There is the way the neck becomes a latch. There is the way the chest beats like a clutch. There is the breath uttering syllables of hush. There is the mustered entanglement and there is the must. Before an afternoon cloaked in indecision there is the push.
The look and the narrow. Darkening shades before the lowering of the gaze. Everything spread becomes more. Everything more becomes subtle. A twitch. A push between the systems of perception. Letting go of the cluster. Coveting the stutter. Of intrinsically outmoded an assurance. Surety loses the wastings. Flurry of thought for the failings. Brushstroke of formalism. Future axing of a pawn’s equity.
What bites is what belongs. The timing has earned itself a keeper. Fleeting in the knife there is the switch of the channel. What guts up gets gutted out. Down as in dream. As in drone. As in multiplying and a halting consequence. A floodgate not unlocked but untucked. Strategies for entrance outrank exits. Gist in a misty embrace. Neither fallow nor fallow in this alignment.
You can read the previous parts of Cambodia Bladed here.