By the Fire

In the silence of long cozy nights, tales from the frontline of the execution of A Panapocalyptic Manifesto were told. Central to the arrangement of the room was the fireplace. It occupied the middle part of the wall facing the door. To the left was a sofa covered with a rich green velvet duvet. Scattered across it were cushions protected by crimson silk cases.  The walls beige.  Pastel green, golden-marbled carpet whispering to the feet the songs that brave sailors sang to their sweethearts during the stormy days’ nights as the moonlight was engraving on the paper the content of the letters to be sent and after a months’ long journey reach the destination. And be read. On the right-hand side wall was a window overlooking snowy virginal dunes. Universe in a snowflake. In the ember glowing from the fireplace. In the fiery eye on the gleaming face of the listener. zarry(E) was all ears as she tuned to the ashes whose smell emanated the cosmogony encoded in an icicle. As she inhaled, the accumulated energy, echoing  cosmic contractions, was upholstering her respiratory pathways. Her exhales were endless reenactments of the moment when an anonymous embryo becomes a newly born child.

She spoke of the days on the beach. At Café Club. Bizzare was the Master of Ceremonies. zarry(E) was taking minutes. Bizzare that obscure emperor of underwater geysers. He was phobic. And it made him king of original duplicity. He staged extreme versions of post-coital depression scenarios. To beat the extremity of reality. Harshness of virtuality. It made him an acolyte of the eye behind the microscopic lens. He made friends with zarry(E). It made the sand on the beach love the steps of the Kids. It made their hands’ grip strong. Their voices crystal-clear. Their imagination intense. Thoughts sharp. Bodies free. Spread across the micro slides.

I don’t know why he chose to tell me those stories. But they colored my porous heart with the voice of the imploding rainbow.

They met there every day. Before its daily death. Before its corpse melt into a foamy coffin. Sagging into the oceanic grave. Before a new  indigo ruler took over the throne. And announced the beginning of the ceremony. LIPOSUCTION SUCKS! LONG LIVE DIARRHEA! The Kids would proclaim. That vivacious call could only come from the feverishly vibrating vocal cords of a techno-visionary. And that’s who they are. The  hail reverberated above the gentle, ice-cold waves. Travelled long airwaves. Curvy wavelengths. Till it reached the walls of the old factory, softly rocking its fragile structure, drinking from the crevices the archived rituals and dragon-style carrying them back to the beach on the wings of the night.

The Kids would form an organic processor of the information to be lived out as a counter-post-coital act. Eyes firmly fixed on the edge of the cliff on which they were standing. Minds sparkling as the oceanic depths are washing down the hissing electrodes. Muscles mimicking a kiss of the electric chair. As a golden splash merges with  the rivers of phlegm flowing upwards…the mixture to be sucked into the boiling marriage of melted gore and slimy rain falling from the armpit into the simmering snotty lava, into a wild embrace of the aquaemeriUM. A rocket shot dashing through the watery tunnel. A galloping cannonball. A staccato projectile. Eating all them blockages alive. Crashing the sea bed. Smashing the sea floor. A jungle digestive clinch. And a vehement contraction vomiting upwards a newly born porridge.

Spattering around mathematico-artistic galaxies. Falling silently through the sift of electrified brains. Onto the rocky oval. To burn till the morning comes as a monumental campfire. To triumphantly preserve in the ember, cuddled by the ashes, the encoded cosmogony. Of the fiery eye on the gleaming face of the listener.