#michaeldavison

Staggering down a dusty trail in a foreign land, a man looks at his horizon that is floating in the heat of a grim and uncertain midday. A silhouette in the distance suddenly is transmuted from mirage into matter, a seemingly real figure in the eye of the man, as an utter dread slithers in the folds of the organ in his boiling skull. “Who am I approaching on my trail, and what does this silhouette in my path hold in store for me? Is he a messenger upon my quietus? Some fell voice? Or is he a mirror image of myself, in the midday of my life? Perhaps I am seeing what I will become, at the dark end of a dusty journey, so momentary.”

What exists inside of this little vessel that we propel through the exhale of time? And when time’s breath ceases to inflate our fragile lungs, what use is our vessel to this ocean, on which we have sailed? This body isn’t really my own, I know, yet where does all of its cargo go, and is the cargo of my mind even mine, or does it belong to the ocean, or sunken voices that we cannot fathom? On this little vessel I sail a sea, and navigate in darkness.

From galaxies to free radicals, a pulse courses, a course pulses, a person causes, a cursor pauses, a pastor curses, an old planet curves and the curtain palls us with its opaqued velvet veil. A man’s spine curls round like the arc cleft by the diurnal sun, and harbors exactly the same system of arteries as this dark globe, whose veins pulse and cogwheels twist, alone in dust spun from light without form, hidden so, in a curtain of time. Our lives are a sojourn in capillaries of another entity, who floats upon milk of yet some other being, who was wrought by a celestial hand, as divine and as sublime as the spine of a man.

just take this trail here and continue until it begins to disappear into the evening, into the early autumn. abandon your vehicle, along with your footwear. sink your painted toes into the ochre husks and brown needles. advance between crooked columns and harvestmen, with fading light upon your back, into the pitch. and at the end, at the edge the echoes of your solitary voice will pong back across the chasm as sweet-nothings in another language, apocryphal replies of your vibrations against some unyielding face of unseen stone - a scream (if you must) will only elicit foreign laughter. thru the forest floor thistles spring upright erecting themselves like pairs of co-dependent scarecrows

Outside it's a symphony conducted by a ghost Choking surreptitiously, sucking on its host. Inside, its philosophy tethered to your wing, The marzipan is cyanide, the poison makes you sing. When I face the guillotine Or you occur to me Can you pull the string, deliver clarity? When I face the guillotine Or you occur to me Can you pull the string and set me free? Underneath the umbrella, sweating in the rain The ink has bled the pages of your pain. Suffer what it means, girl, to be aware of dreams Harbored in the pasture out of reach. When I face the guillotine Or you occur to me Can you pull the string, deliver clarity? When I face the guillotine Or you occur to me Can you pull the string and set me free? When I face the guillotine Or you occur to me Can you pull the string, deliver clarity? Step up to the guillotine And give your love to me. Can you pull the string? Standing by the guillotine, It's hard for me to see. Can you pull the string?

I can't erase the tidal traces of it Cannot reach the bleach to treat the stains Don't want to speak of it, its shadow still persists It makes me weaker just to ponder it again Dull is the pallor of the afternoon You carve the remnant of its smile Yellow is the taste of the residue; you left too soon The sallow flavor of it, of what was fallow for awhile Oh Luna, Luna you're a silhouette That somehow intercepts my sun Removed from my lens, placid and silent In spite of my love in your shadow, we are one Another body gently arches in It wears your face in its campaign While you are somewhere, wistful and ignorant And exempt of me as you are from the rain You're still the impetus of damage that I'll sustain Oh Luna, Luna you're a silhouette That sometimes intercepts the sun Removed from my lens, placid, silent In spite of my love in your shadow, you have won. Luna, Luna you're a silhouette That somehow intercepts my sun Removed from my lens, placid, silent