Storystyling : Unseasoned Seasons (4 / foYr)

come to yo senses, for f*ck sake

Spent some space in the interstices of time. Between the wind’s inhales and exhales. Between the cloud’s sobs. Between words. Sound.

Been harking an owl’s razor look cutting the ink chunks that glue the spaces between trees, an owl’s laser eye defrosting void filled with midnight tar. Been attuned to the hooting alveoli of the universe, capillaries of the constellations. Been fed on the smell of saturn’s orbit. I liked the sound of it.

It felt like the half-forgotten dream of stars, like the half-faded thought of the moonoiling (been told a story). It smelled like a hovering fantasy of the riverbed covered with a cosmic pearlshower (my everyday). It spoke like a child defying chronos’ empire : T(h)ree looking one / syntax off syntax.

amber was my balm. bee wax was mortar to my secluded sylvan habitat, dried mud bricks to the walls encircling it, holding it. filthy ponds of stale water irrigated flora in my backyard. petals loved those wicked nutrients. falling off of the stem, they disintegrated into an interstellar splash of pollen. it spreads.

/

ambrosia dripping into the chalice (@#&…

…somebody said something, ha?)…its foot firmly anchored in the surface of the table. its rim like the face of yo cymbalness. its shape like hourglass.

its base carried on the rhizomorhic dialogue between quirky quarks (@#&……somebody mentioned angularity, ha?)…static screeches, hisses, milkishness glows, radiance of screens abounds. all being palephotonized now.

stately castle – withdrawn in humble dignity, protective in elusive solidity (@#&…

...fancy a cake, ha?)…words between timespaces, miniscule rescuers in disguise, between glossy facades--reflection. unshakably resilient / like phunk.

/

Time that doesn’t like the rain likes storms. It’s averse to drizzle. It likes sleet. Despises breeze. Leans toward hurricane. Hostile to sunshine, it worships scorching heat.

On an overcast afternoon, clouds seek shelter from the animosity it emanates. They know airy trajectories, hidden passages, and disguised tunnels where midnight mane reigns in the glory of its abysmal inkness. Fluffy travelers withdraw in front of the brazen scorn. Time that doesn’t like steely sky knows not what color is.

When they kiss warm air, long mornings, saturated with unsmoked books, become the epicenter of abhorring. Because time that is not keen on laziness is not fond of hydra-tubular connectors between solemn nodes that anchor sweet melancholy of the constellations, either.

When the wind from the north undresses grayish branches and dries the orbits’ tears penetrating the skin and soaking the trunks, snaking around stems, lathering  petals with a gentle film, it hoots signals to meet akin wavelengths, merge with kindred valences, and form whispery pockets, shadow galactic oases in the midst of desertlike kinetics  / pearlshower crouching over the crests of the river surface (been told a story). The wind knows how to whisper. It likes the rain. It’s a friend of the drizzle tedium, of steely clouds and their kisses. It is everyday.

like phunk.

/

Cloud winks. Pixel petals flutter across the universe. Like a comb crumbling…disintegrating into cells. Like blades on the diaphragm of the cosmic whirlpool. Constellations blinking. With each wink, a goldendust billow splashes the travesty of obscure pockets of nebulae. Pearly cobweb veiling the dreamy abyss. Desire of the oneiric, dreams of stars. Tales of pearls, tales of petals.

Cloud winks. Pixel petal dispersal covers the stellar seabed with a plush, feathery translucent film. Tissue of memories. As the particles dissolve in deaf vastness, memories are being re-generated. With each dissolved pixel, a mollicule integrating the smell of a hyacinth hybridized with the aura of skyscrapers, whiff of linden merged with the fuzz of avenues, touch of jasmine licking the steam of pavements. The smell of pixels, the looks of petals.

I thought the memories were being conjured up from the absence of those smells and looks. Appearances. But, they were not. Memories were re-generated from the repository of those goodies. Each of them retrieved with a fading pixel petal. All of them gathered with the spread of the foamy adhesive. Reanimated through the gentle whispers of fragrances woven in the shy motions of the air. They smell like clouds. They look like melliferous wellsprings.

all being palephotonized now.

like phunk.