DovQuixote

Whistle

Sitting under a full moon, listening to soul music, enjoying sweet, soft, thick yogurt, I am amused. I take a sip of young cannabis out of an older pipe, I scribe the story of Glory. The Great Cup holds nectar far, far sweeter than any honey, and more intoxicating than the alcohol the dragon drinks. No. You’d never know, if not for fools with big ideas, you would know nothing, fool. Some fool’s heads are big enough to house those big ideas… congratulations to the lucky ones. There are some whose ears are wide enough to hear a lot of a big idea at once… respects to the wise ones. Others have large eyes, like moons, which see what happens… Good on the attentive ones.

Some giants speak English.

Some Gods whisper. Pay your respects.

I once watched tortured ghouls drag their way across the ghost of a battle-field. Some architect or other had paved over a wasteland. Some soulful liar put the dirt in pales, and then rang out some of the blood. She put it inside cans for later, beside my tears and sun rays. The ghost cried out in pain and in sorrow. One of the articulate ones smiled, I think.

-Laughter. Hardly speaking… ripping air out of its gut, it made such a shriek I could barely comprehend. The rest mimicked its laughter. I shed a tear in vain but I watched them still. The remains of buildings were obscene playthings now. Excuse the ironic pause in my pulse. They climbed and fell over walls like Humpty-Dumpty Mongols. The heads sunk and imploded loudly on the terrible turf. Blood should never smell that way. The fools fell like lemmings, laughing all the way down.

I felt fear then. I shed it like a tear, down my spine. I swear I had to look away- but I never did. Ghastly, such sharp weapons they clung to. There was no such thing as too sharp before they came, as I recall. Now there is fear and destruction everywhere.

But not for long: they’re almost gone.

Few things are more fearful than a wave goodbye. After the first sweeps you, thunderous, surging, painful, crashing down, the notion of another never leaves the thick walls of the seed that holds your soul. Fear. You disappear, engulfed and gone, mangled beyond your own belief and then… it has gone. Bruises and scars are brief and nothing to the thing you have learned: even thoughts can be shattered to bits.

The smell of the creatures is what haunts me still. The wasteland was terrible after they left, but a creeping sensation of their odour lingers in the books. They Read. Faint at first, like a distant connection to a thought, like whatever is hiding behind an afterthought, in this case, something subtle. It becomes sensible as you turn the pages… a problem arises. And then, put off as you are forever, I flung the book down and returned to my warm or dull thoughts. My sweet insensible things. But only for a moment.

And then I flew away.