Tuesday, March 11, 2008
Saturday, March 1, 2008
The belly of the gazelle opened like a flower. Heat hit my face in a rush, and the smell washed over me. For a moment I thought the overwhelming, sweetness of this smell would knock me unconscious. They must have fed the gazelle exclusively with flower petals. An image, a memory of a scent. A bottle of essential oil broken an a hardwood floor, eating away the finish, air in a long abandoned house dense with a cloying odor.
The whiskers of the female lion on my right brushed my cheek. The heat and scent of her breath, heavy in my nostrils before she and the other two female lions had pulled the belly of the gazelle apart now barely registered.
«Lying down with lions. Surely I must be the lamb.» I thought. «Perhaps the day of Gods wrath has come and gone and we are delivered unto him.» My host stood watching with the same look of regal disinterest as the male lion that lay at his side.
The flesh between my teeth slid from my initial probing bite like the sensual slithering of a raw oyster. A gag convulsed my belly with an almost orgasmic intensity. A quick gulp of air brought a rush to my head and dancing spots of light to my eyes. My vision blurred with tears of gratitude I began to tear at the gazelle with my teeth.
Half dead human forms used as centerpieces on the banquet table. The other half of a politicians vacant gaze looks through the stained glass window behind my chair.
In this place with no moon or sun, no time of day or season, the light of morning seeps in by common consensus. The revelers who had come as guests the committee lay exhausted from more hours of self indulgence and noxious ingestion than could normally be survived.
Slipping in and out.
A procession of monks manifest the wings of a mansion as they approach. Nothing there when we arrive. Half dead hominid shapes. Hedge rows with leathery faces, hissing, gurgling, swaying. Flowers grin with meaty insouciance. A field of arms. Vines, eyes, tongues crawl up walls.
We approach. Our place of meeting has always been, comes into being the moment the procession steps onto the stone terrace.
«Poor bastard doesn't know where he is.» the comittee assembled, awaits permission to begin. Our host will give the signal and I will set to writing the minutes. After each sentence is entered, a nod. The person acknowledged then will speak it.
We sank back into the world to come slowly enough to watch the great edifice un-manifest upon the exiting procession. The peppery, florid aftertaste of that fantastical flesh, a lingering ember.
I will feel.