WHO AM I?

              [ gale kashif walks into the woods. he disappears. ]

              between   the   stitches   of   an   all-night   body ,   the   body   which   is  no   body ,   the   body   which   through   the   mist   is   only   shadow ,   bone ,   shadow ,   bone   again.   &   his  breath   suspended   in   the   wind   ,   or   between   half-open   mouths ,   in   prayer   and   merging   hymns   into   horrors.   he ,   king-thing ,  cell   in   the   body   of   the   hill ,   walks   out   of   the   earth   where   men   once   pressed   their   faces.   prostration   after   prostration ,   harvest   after   haverst ,  where   now   this   same   earth   trembles   with   a   pulse.   two   men ,   then ,   or   men    wearing   men-suits ,   stand   by   the   river.    ❛ you were once welcome here — but you have forgotten. ❜

              [ gale kashif walks into the woods. he walks back home. he leaves himself behind. ]

               &   suddenly    there   is   silence   ,  in   its  primal ,   rawhide   state ,   like   the  man  standing   there    is   swallowing   all   sound ,   all life ,   all-world.   water   which   no   longer   speaks ,   nor   tree ,   nor   wind ,   nor   deer nor soul.   silence  which   speaks   of   what   the   woods   would   whisper:   horror ,   and   fear ,   and   hunger  — words   of   worship.  comes , then ,   a   voice  crackling   like   static ,   layer   upon   layer   of   it ,   multitudes   of   sounds …  did you think sound could not bleed ?    ❛ you are but a trespasser now, a starved butcherbird, gnawing at the edges of my kingdom. ❜

01. @carcassed !    /     when oak trees were men , when water was still water

      noise within noise ,  night in sempiternal night ;  in the mouth of darkness ,  there is only teeth ,  reddening with age.  the wet trod of animals presses slowly against the periphery ,  mixing its peculiar decrescendo with the waningly violent sputter of the river below.  the world is growing quiet ,  preparing its silent reflection for the procession that is to come.  

        THE SCENE IS SUCH :  bare feet against the rocks ,  GALE is a man possessed ,  a man who is not a man ,  desperate for a  reversion into immensity ;  a branch breaks ,  a crow cries hard and high into the sky ;  he makes as if to jump ,  one leg hanging loosely towards the shallow drop ,  bare and artificial ,  but is halted by the sound of the soil ,  of the sediment ,  of the shivering bones of the world.  it is the EARTH ;  the earth and its silver hunting dogs. 

        GALE does not turn around ,  frozen in fear and reverence and brutal ache.  when he speaks ,  his whole body shakes. 

           i   pass   through   the   mouth   of   the   room.   here   is   the   shape   i   make   in   the   shadows: the woman as dark as light.   the   colors   of   me   bleed   in   the   room ,   and   i   blur ,   and   he   stares.   i   put   my   body   between   two   chairs   bent   and   broken   like   teeth.   he   immediately   rises   from   his   bed.   i   can   hear   his   hunger   —   the   room   is   folding   in   on   itself.   it   trembles.   i   hear   the   tender ,   affectionate   growls   of   it.   here   comes   his   hand   searching   for   me.   the   flesh   of   him   burns   and  the   red   of   it   calls:   touch me and make me real , put your body on my body , come into the dark crooks of me. devour me ,   he   says.   or i’ll devour you.   he   puts   his   fingers   upon   my   throat ,   presses   them   to   the   pale   parts   of   it.   a   sort   of  violence   through   tenderness.  he   puts   his    breath   on   me. 

            but   i   move.  i   abstain   from   skin   to   skin.   cling   not   to   me ,   he-of-a-thousand-eyes ,   to   the   shell   i   put   over   me   like   veil.   let   us   start   with   the   cutting   of   our   hands   intertwined ,   interweaved ,   interrupted.   ❛  come.  ❜ ,   i   say.    ❛  show me the woods again. ❜

      a body ,  untethered ;  within him ,  the absolutism of death ticks and tolls in a symphony of broken ,  distorted noise.  the mind is unraveling ,  the dark swell of the river’s rise is slowing ;  gale is going to die  soon.  (  it is a premeditated event.  )

        at this hour ,  any movement in the room seems to gale like that of an insect ,  skittering with its long ,  geometric legs across the hardwood floor ,  pressing itself in the midnight corners of the room and watching him while he sleeps.  helena  (  who is tonight’s corner - creature )  performs this slinking shuffle in habitual repetition ,  sliding in and out of sight with deliberate indecision.  he hates the way his eyes know where to look ,  even in the absence of light.  he hates her.  her and the legs that rise to meet her ,  the cold lips that whistle into the slit of her mouth ,  the soil - covered heart that beats dirt like blood into his veins.  the dying will be bitter and brutal and full of red ,  bleeding water ,  but she will be there.  she will take him away ,  somewhere ,  where he might rest.  somewhere without eyes.  he is comforted by this and this only. 

AHHHHHHH THANK YOU!!! i have my notifications turned off for tumblr on mobile and so whenever i randomly check my acc and see the red number on my activity bar i always think its amanda or yen or any of the other Usual Culprits but this time it was this... my night has been made u are so cute n nice friend ty 

ASK MEME. :  VIDUAMOR.  :  OPEN.

        in the brightest hours of the day ,  the cottage is filled with warm ,  revealing light.  the windows ,  he notes ,  are squares divided by crossed wood panels into four smaller squares.  it is useless – windows in windows ,  squares in squares.  the result is all the same :  morning light ,  the absence of privacy.  

           when she returns from another end of the refuge ,  carrying a cup that leaks smoke like fire ,  which he thinks he remembers from a night his dad took him hiking ,  he is staring at the way the sun is puddled on the floor in decided rays and trying to figure out when he learned the words sun and window and square.

           it is not cold ;  he pulls the blanket around him closed anyway.  he senses ,  vaguely ,  that his nakedness is inappropriate. nonetheless ,  she is unfazed ,  placing the mug on the table beside him and remaining upright ,  tall and straight ,  powerfully present and seeking no privacy.  a window into nothing ,  an undivided square. 

           she must sense his discomfort ,  as she bandages it in a practiced hospitality that he feels he’s never liked but always respected.  come ,  stay ,  whatever you’d like.  what comes next is a sputtering ,  a collection of syllables that pool like hot sun puddles on his tongue.  in the depth of his new consciousness ,  a name :  viy.  

           caged in illiteracy ,  he strings aggravation in a cacophony of guttural noise.  slowly ,  as if battling the size of his own tongue ,  he articulates:  

ASK MEME.  :  LAMORTS.  :  OPEN. 

       the bitter body ,  the mouth that breeds foam and tar - like blood ;  non - consciously ,  he recoils.  

          today marks the third night in a row that he’s thrown himself headfirst in the river.  (  last time ,  he snapped his neck on a rock and had to set it straight on the way home. )  the cuts and scrapes the body endures upon impact make swirls of blood ,  wafting like metallic smoke ,  which leak into the water ,  autonomous and full of names.  none of them are gale. the blood is another’s.  he owns nothing ;  he is nothing.  /  the mind fractions ,  snapping like fingers against the stone that claims its bone.

          even suicide has become a form of ritual murder. 

          standing at the river’s end,  toes curling and uncurling at the precipices of the rocky opening ,  gale is beginning to feel dryas’ presence is that of the anxious bystander ,  the frightened biker who ,  in his feebleness ,  attempts to coax a manic depressive off the edge of a bridge.  don’t jump ,  he says ;  you’ve got so much to live for.  (  translation :  we’re not done with you yet.  )  

       “  stop talking to me like that – you’re making me feel crazy.  ”  with stunning laxity does he catapult himself into the water ,  breaking what sounds like an anklebone – but one can never be sure ,  as all fractures are muffled by the heavy rush of riverwater ,  which slots against him like a lover.  turning to dryas ,  who remains distant and unaccusatory amongst the trees ,  he frowns in a way that imitates consciousness.  dryas visibly loosens. 

           a   teetering   of   teething ,   which   is   to   say   the   teeth   in   his   mouth   meet   the   words   he   speaks —   in   the   dark   of   his   throat ,   which   shadow-impaled   word   he   keeps   from   me  ?   (   are   you   angry ?   are   you   hungry   for   anger ?   )   indistinguishable   from   darkness ,   we   lose   the   walls   of us.   another   quietness   falls   between   us ,   like   an   axe.   &   he   is   cut   apart   from   the   room ,   dislodged   like   a   phantom   limb ,   which   is   to   say   humanness   makes   a   half-formed   animal   of   him.   it   asks   for   an   involvement   of   touch.   (   do   you   have   to   divorce   your   flesh   to   put   your   hand   on   me  ?   )  this   is   my   hand   that   hangs   above   his ,   ghost   of   ghosts ,   the   memory   of   gesture.    ❛ does it have to be a matter of personal gain ? ❜

      it is not his anger that he searches for ,  but rather a pyre in which to plunge ,  bright in its flame ;  red is the hunger ,  the begging to be fed.  red is her mouth ,  rising and falling in some profound ,  dark marionette of unlight.  even in the silent eye of perpetual nighttime does she transform space ,  molding it like a cold clay between the double joints of her hands ,  which sit atop his like bare branches on topsoil.  she is everywhere ,  appearing as no - one  - as nobody -   at all.  he nears in a crawl,  finding nothing of her body to move to ,  yet knowing the direction anyway  --  a history of touches ,  leading his trembling heart to her teeth like a compass.