Popis Boj

Posted in Uncategorized on March 10, 2009 by Francis

I left the grounds of Lady Marie’s home at a sprint. Consumptive lungs screamed me to a wheezing halt. In foreign surroundings I scanned the sky for signs of the familiar. To the West, the setting sun was engaged in a lazy descent, shadowed and pockmarked by the black industrial belch from London’s many mouths. The road I was on was threatened on all side by nature, battling on many fronts to hold back the invading grasses and roots. Neither side was going the direction of my misasmic home, but the left turned quickly to tree covered darkness, while rightwards took me back past the house towards a small cluster of hovels down a hill. The trees whispered upon the wind for me to come join them in the darkness.

I had not travelled far. It seemed I had barely moved, the fields passing either side of me a barely changing tableau. My aching soles told me I was not stuck in stasis and had travelled a not insignificant route already. London remained a mere decoration upon the horizon. My walking continued monotonously, a gradual slowing that of unwinding clockwork.

A sudden stabbing throb sparked through my midriff, knocking me off my feet. A heat radiated from my stomach, consuming by body with a needling heat. My vision blurred. Not a temporary blindness, a bending of the corners. The creeping in of that other world that lies inside me. Fingers tore at the back of my eyes, fighting to be let out of their psychic imprisonment. A screwed by eyes tight and drew my arms and legs inward. Foetal, I lay on the ground for a moment attempting to absorb the pain. Evening birdsong shrieked through my pain, sent it scattering outwards to my fingertips and into the chill air. I lay limp for a few seconds before thoughts began their whirring processes. I need to find a book. That deep want inside me needs satiating. My hidden dark dependencies demanding attention. I set off at a run. The pain already hitting of panting lungs and deadened feet mere esuna compared to that which was threatening to return soon. A signal of hope was carried to me, a grey spectred pillar was rising from a near distant chimney.

The farmhouse was solid, its foundations rooted in the deep crust of the earth. I burst through the door, unlocked in the innocence of country living. A man turned open mouthed and open eyed, his features as cragged and old as the ancient granite of his house. His hair the grey of London snow. I opened my mouth to tell him of my plight, but words were cut off at the back of my throat, razor sharp lashings thrashing through me. My eyes dimmed again as I was brought to my knees. The man the last thing I saw, running past me, escaping the demonic tendrils pouring from me. Smokelike and dark, tipped in red, figures and shapes curled around me, pressing down upon my chest, pushing at the inside of my skull. I fought back, willing words of the real world to burst forth. A primal scream emanated from me, banishing the visions back to their falsehoods. Another would claim me, would end me. I must find a book.

I wished, I prayed, I called out to all things of aid to the innocent and in peril. I paced the rooms, searching for a desk, a case, a stand, anything of writing and words that could satisfy the urges of hyperreality. None were forthcoming. A house bereft of literature, uncivilised, uneducated in the ways of the city. A simple life I could only wish for. I sat down upon the hard wooden floor and held my head in my hands. A last reminder of my tangible existence. Then I saw it. An incongruity below the table. One leg was missing its foot. Its replacement a thing of paper and ink. Tattered and battered and forced into menial servitude. I lunged at it. Pulling it from under its wooden master, sending the table toppling with a rattling cacophony. I tossed the book into the fireplace. The flames licked hungrily at the pages. The author’s name flashed briefly in orange, illuminated by the phosphorescence of the crisp page burning. I immersed myself in the swirling smoke and gave myself to Kafka Dreams.



Posted in Uncategorized on March 2, 2009 by Francis

My feet buried, plantlike in deep brown cold earth. Extracting my bipedal limbs one then two, I blink myself to full awakening. Last night I fell asleep in a miasmic swoon upon the stone cobbles of a London back alley. I wake surrounded by the verdant abundance of beast-sculpted hedges and rainbow flowers. I shake the clinging ground from my boots, the dirt encasing my legs still trying to claim me back for Gaia. The unsmoked air refreshes, replenishing with every breath. A cleansing esuna drop in the black ocean London has deposited within me. The sun, freed here from the city’s cloying grip does not warm me though. I stand in a palatial shadow. The plants turn accusing gaze upon me as I creep unsolicited towards a powder white wall. I whisper platitudes as I pass, telling them I plan no harm, assuring innocent motives. They remain silent, complicit. A window, bordered in black beckons me with transparent welcoming. Pressing up against its chill, my breath becomes crystalline, the fog of London briefly appearing, tarnishing the glass’ perfection. The cloud clears, revealing invisible separation of my world outside from the austenesque interior. A woman enters stage left. She is Lady Marie Ashley. I have no way of knowing, and yet I am sure. Her note twitches in my pocket, sensing the proximity of its mistresses hand. I see her glide past, the curls of her hair flicks of dark calligraphy, the shine of her dress crisp goldenrod. She nears exit, a crescendo of voices builds in my chest, my feet once again rooted firm to the ground unmoveable. As she disappears once again from perceptive existence my cry bursts forth as no more than a vaporous silence.

Discussed with a moth by lamplight

Posted in Uncategorized on February 20, 2009 by Francis

“Dearest Count, Next Friday I am holding a ball, consider this a formal invitation, I expect to see you there, no excuses! Yours Faithfully Lady Ashley”

A note found in my pocket, marked in the feminine caligraphic hand of one Lady Ashley. Faces waltz about in my memory, dresses decked in decadence and faces veiled by riches. I crumple the paper in my palm, a sweet release of perfume smothers my olfaction. Surely this is not another dream, another imagining made manifest. I taste the writing, the ink sweet with handcrafted desires tamed to dark signifying shapes. My senses back hesitancy to a corner, push it back to dark recesses to be consumed unknowingly by the beast of curiosity.

Who is Lady Ashley? Those faces begin their waltzing once more. None of them real, my life in this world has been lit by the dark shining of the moon, the shroud of shadow and the viscous black of night. But I have danced by candelabra, by chandelier, by firesides. To Austin’s world I have seldom ventured and never lingered long, but now those brief sojourns seem a tantalising tease to the possibilities of ‘Next Friday’.

“No Excuses”. Such a demand. Other than puppets pulled by strings of fiction, little have I had to do with other beings. I have many excuses, that world of Austen at which I have glimpsed seems no place for the likes of me, at the brink of insanity and evanescence. Yet my time is running out, the existential abyss creeps closer.

I shall go.

Confessions told to the Thames

Posted in Uncategorized on January 24, 2009 by Francis

I am slipping. I live in hyperreality. They have suffused me, saturated me.  Hollowed out and filled with foreign tales. Every step, every breath heavy with wars and romance, heroes, heroines, addicts and illness, family, royalty, palaces, castles, damsels, villains and devils, maids, mistresses, matriarchs and patriarchs, patriots, the good, the bad, the ugly, the monstrous, everymen, beasts and animals, lovers, haters, tears, of joy, birth and death and all between and all beyond. And one golem that began it all.

Greedily i gorged myself on all of these. At first with valiance. A purpose. Great power. My butterfly flap of wing in the infinity of the cosmos.

No more than a slave now, a puppet pulled on strings wound by words. A craving. Primal, drives me to the next book, the next story to satisfy my hunger. I do not free those trapped, it is them that free me. Only long enough to once again be ensnared. Each book sweet relief. I live in them. I live for them. It is because of them I live.

Carved Upon Tower Bridge

Posted in Uncategorized on January 19, 2009 by Francis

My life has been paved with pages to England and English. The patriarchal tongue that lashes at the continent seeks a saviour. It has been put in chains of ink and paper, stifled and subdued,  degraded to servitude and wasting away, unread, untold, a voice of no more than dust and age.

Let me release you.Tell me your stories.

Carved Upon Pražský most

Posted in Uncategorized on January 5, 2009 by Francis

All property is theft

all art incarceration.

I will free what was stolen…