P / P: Short Story – Lunar activity is for the loons

Written By: Hunter Stroope

loon

Cussing sweet memories into a viral state. Plaguing the love of the earth with an idea of selfish unity. Is it just one? Or separate ones? Lets get it together and find out.

Two loves, intermingle and strangle one another with fervor and skin. “Keep it quiet. I cant here my own heart beat,” they repeat to one another. Tasting the life-giving venom of one another’s salvation glands, it goes in right and speaks its piece, rocking in unison to the earthquake, and wondering on what other earth could this time be so perfect…

More and more and more, the awakening never begins with a fall. They live together within the eternal, and in the right now. The place where they grew, and the place where they feast and know. Counting the seconds backwards and in dead languages, no need. Lopsided and organic, the fuel for this is just a rhyming hymn of unneeded explanation. It need not even be uttered, for it floats like a cork on the spirit of the known. Wishes can’t conjure memories, or make the future grow.

It is unearthly, giving and seeing. That sounds to the master like an unscripted thought. Throw out the damned script! There is no script to the self, entertainment and quadrophenia. All ilk set aside only for the unholy depths of the dead oceans. Let the rodents squirm in delight. What have they on you? Why start trouble? It is always dying unless you are alive and forever in this current of now.

Pulsating troubles reeking havoc on their path, speaking like vacuums into the earth’s core, awaking the small children in their tiny slumber, as they reach over their crib bars and shake their devilish thoughts with scorn. It feeds them with hands of plate, escorting fruits of being into their gullets. Crying in the night they scare up seated birds, trying only to watch in on the human condition. I feel not for the birds, though they are my kin. I love not for the air of holiness or cosmic gifts. They are but wax shrubbery entertaining my scene. All is blank, not silver or emerald, and time is waning onto forever. The spiral must be met with kinship and love, and the factors and variables of family can touch only with quilted hands, none too distant and none too near. The tornadoes pull the thunders and crack the gods, shaking hands in dirty bar room deals. It’s all in a glass mug and we can share the winnings if you don’t mind toiling.

It’s all what it is. And escape is futile and forgotten. Cage the anger and sink it fast. Fill the pores of un-delight with moisture or flame and rotted soil. What have you! You choose to say you are the standing body, just waiting! Calling upon the air for guidance, walking upon a civilized mountain for freedom. Throwing yourself into the tattered leather hole. Claustrophobic, you struggle into drink and disease. Waste is a life un-thorough! Suck the golden embers from fires not yet lit, cut the demonic orange grasses from your mind, stomp out the white light and breathe with a capitol BE.

Lunar activity is for the loons.

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