Friday, December 14, 2007


Here in the belly of the whale, where drowned ship’s rigging laments the sea so close behind bone beams and meat cathedral walls; where this oversized heart beats an organ tempo of anger restrained only by the skin of this container.
Here where the marooned maniacs and blue serenaders rot in solitude skeletal serene while the babbling beyond continues oblivious and maelstrom bent.
And you without; what of your gods; your ghouls and your ghosts; those peripheral fears that would steer you and guide you by your fears and your doubts alone; by the seat of your wants? What use have I for steering when my course is decided by the twist of a fin or the flap of a tail - this whale does not care for my existence, nor does it hear my desperate insistence that it is I who am in control of this meat-puppet circus; this carnivorous carnival of chaos.
And what of this process that whittles me down with digestive juices and enzyme gut decay, ‘til I’m nothing more than a collection of pale calcium sticks in scattered array for decadent diviners to ponder the present past future, tense before dust I become?
Come, O whale in time transfigured to drag me down to depths unplundered; where dark algae waters collect Piscean subterranean lakes of pure thought where my own heart will burst with the pressure of a thousand miles of evolution strung out and stranded in double helix digital logic displayed for the world to see – like the innards of this whale; like the entrails of sacrificial lambs for those diviners to decipher.
Who would believe the tales you’ve told; the words all skittered and scattered and scornful of ignorance and wallowing world view?
Who would want your life; your vital signs; your semi-colon comatose corrupt and petty parlour so jealously guarded and painfully polished?
Not me.
Content am I in the belly of this beast; warm and alone with these broken artefacts of childhood dreams; these scattered hearts of childhood artefacts and broken dreams of objects unadorned by sentiment or nostalgic discontent.
Outsider on the inside, littered with dark thoughts for light entertainment the hours to muse and meander the rivers of time to navigate alone.


gregra&gar said...

I don't know which I like most, the picture or the words — I suspect you produced both. Excellent! "…seat of your wants." indeed. The handle beyond necessity.

Pisces Iscariot said...

Wish I could lay claim to the artwork, I have added a link to the artist.
I love the idea of being an outsider on the inside ;]

Absolute Vanilla (and Atyllah) said...

I think I've said this before, your words need to be painted. The imagery is so vivid, the sense of the words more palpable that just words - I feel the need to see this piece, painted and sculpted. I wonder if there might be such a thing as 3-D writing.

An outsider on the inside... I sometimes think I am an outsider on the inside and the outside.