David Bowie Blackstar and concatenations
BEYOND THE SAVIOUR
The wind carried her name across the roof.
Then she yelped her name again more shrill this time like a puppy in bag heading for the river.
It pierced the air like a silent alarm. Contained and guttural, she knew the sound of that pitch; it meant save me, I’m floundering grasping at my life.
She put a shush finger to her lips, and he knew what it meant.
His startled eyes told their own story.
When she opened the door she passed her by ‘I can’t take it any more’ I can’t breath’.
She hurried her out to the back and let her sit; her stalagmite back struggled in the curve of the seat.
Her face contorted with shiny rows of furrows history jammed into the folds.
Her eyes vacant and entreating kill me, quench this fire.
I’m dying.
It’s natural to run when the mind explodes having no particular resting place makes it worse having no one is worse again.
Run to where is the thing. Not many places to go.
Walk the dog.
Walk to the shop.
Walk to the church.
Walk to no destination.
Walk to the local medical centre.
When you are crushed it is rest the body is asking for.
She resists this.
The temporal appears as solace, the spiritual is where it lies.
She tells her to go into the sitting room and says lie there.
Lie down there.
Fixing the cushions for her head to rest.
I can’t breath.
She lifted her jumper and felt her gut, a jumping palpitating heart was in there. Her hands pressed gently and she could feel her life in her organs. Each marching to the sound of the synaptic beats laced with pharma inhibitors death can be a calling when you are in this state.
That stare falling into the cosmic wilderness, a primeval rebirth waiting for the cord to be cut. The weight of life’s labyrinth pulled her under to hellfire. Destroyed.
She got a stone and placed it on her navel cold and diverting. She looked askance, her eyes wide, pupils pinpoints and she was frozen stiff with fervid anxiety.
Catatonia’s friend the paradox.
In revocation she will lose something.
Herself.
But will gain something.
Mastery of reason.
It won’t happen she is too hurt, scarred, scared, confused and astrobleme on this earth wishing for a meteor collision.
Too late.
The game is over.
FUCK! IT!
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