Whispers Eavesdropped


What do you think of when leaves drop..?

Rasp an' rustle... much like my soul… that's lost track of day. A day lost to eternity, to a silky petrification – the flesh's forgotten shadow.

Rasp an' rustle... much like my soul… that's lost track of day... ripped out of the times by a swirl of memory. A memory gone berserk, that's turned back the time. Memory: go crazy or fall...

Rasp an' rustle... much like my soul on a lost day… craving a fall… into nothingness, into mindlessness out of a swirl of memory, out of mindlessness into a windlessness, into oblivion – to forget it. Craving a fall... losing a foothold and dropping... frightened out of its life, losing its foothold of death wish... rushing every which way... clutching (nothing to clutch at) at the air – and falling, at the raindrops – and falling, at the whispers that drop along with me, along with my soul... What does whisper whisper about? What about..? I can hear: "Tell... tell me." What, what is there to tell..? To get in a word edgeways… get in a word edgeways... I can hear, I can: it's always there in me. "Tell! Tell me!" I can't..! "Tell!" There, I'm reviving the stillborn sounds: "I invite you to…" No, time was short... too short... Rather this than cuddling her in a crazy patchwork of loose dropping rags… Isn't it..?

In times gone by, before you'd got yourself entrenched in this life bodily or mentally, it looked like a space frozen  in time, like so many paints on canvas that had gotten sick with lifelessness and infected the picture – a landscape, a still life or series of portraits?. The picture seemed to be saying: "You've no business here. This isn't yours. This is far away." You looked away and backed off... and got nearer, none the wiser... Now you're a paint drop in the picture, coolly gazing down from the canvas, a paint drop from the Artist's brush, all the way from a world of play and paint coitus into the world of cooling highlights... It's just the wistful nostalgia for dropping leaves that makes it into this world on occasion...

A noise... getting louder. A whisper… scant of breath… is building up. No, no whisper – it's the wind, a gust, not scant of breath. The wind is gusting, forcing its way into the picture… crack! – the dry hymen is gaping wide – crunch! – the particolored shell is splintered. The noise… is getting louder. A rasp roughing up the air all around: rasp an' rustle rough and ready all around the ruts. The wind (the air rushing every which way, stirred by the new airy arrival) battering the trunks – violent... shaking the boughs – violent... tearing at the tops, shedding leaves, alive as yet, veiny, blood still in the veins – heartless... tipping up the heads, the dead heads of the dead flowers, frightening the mortals and frightening death – feisty and gloating... The noise building up. Rustle – air confused. Gusty rustle... air compressed, wave after wave. Shrapnel! Raindrops clear, by the cloud, lashed and entwined so loud. Shrapnel lashes the space, rendering it opaque. Gusty rustle – wave after wave – deafening. No leaves, those. The leaves are dropping overwhelmed... recoil and drop... clutching (nothing to clutch at) at the air, while the dripping air rags drop all the way past memory, only to float in memory and never drop – and drop unaware, and plop into oblivion, and plop on your face, splattering, spreading snot and blood and memory all over the cheeks, the lips, the eyes...





About me

This is me: home-writer, book-reader, dog-lover and occasional poet. I make this website to share my and my friends texts with You, dear Reader. Please: read carefully, don't be scary, upgrade your mood and be king and leave your comment. :)