Saturday, March 15, 2008

'Poetic' messages

The other day, Confucious sent me a message, and I replied to it... Our exchange went thus.

Confucious: Hold that darkness in you, the one that tries to wriggle out. It’s a nymph’s smile that your own, like adorable autumn leaves on my road. Meander in the abyss and watch slowly. The single egg sinks in deep green. Darkness is a world of dreams. Dance with us and revel in this life. It’s loud. It’s love. It’s random.

Me: And sing on the banks of the sunshine, ringing your song like a fur gong. Dance to the peals of laughter and soar with the cloudy birds, as they escape the green Ogre’s mouth. The melted wax you find is yours to shape, and strange creatures yours to make. The weights that chain them are not yours, and in the end it’s only you! So dance into the vortex and sing what you will, the happy yellow will pour in after, like steamy soupy love.

 Confucious: That is when the tree bends down. She is in love with that river. Letting birds fly from her wings against a bright pink sky. In the deep woods a beautiful elf sings. A mischievous reverberance. A punctual resonance. Neon lights slumber party. Shout you freaking dreamcatcher.

Me: And the lazy stretch by the night nymph’s side, yawns and curls up purring in its depths. The silence of the shrieking dreamcatcher, hurts like splintered neon light. But in the swirling, whirling depths of eternity, the Child of the Universe sings her melody, and fragrant butter melts the frying pan. The sleepy clouds paint the sky with shades of sound and lightning. And thunder showers the sleek jet black, till the fur yowls and licks itself smooth again.

Confucious: With stealth the furry entity crawls up and round, round and up… A hill. Have you seen one? In our town there are only mountains. The snow sleeps on the tip yearning for an avalanche. Has this world yet seen a new mentor of avalanche, one of talent? The wise one weeps, clenching onto his loin cloth. Belonging and private trials. Behold. Watch the seer run down. He is searching for a song. Do you have one?

Me: An unconcerned flap wings its way against the purple sky. And smothered songs scream silence in the wizard’s finger web. From one hand, pink silver lightning winks, scorching the sky… And the snow wonders whether an avalanche is in order yet! The black faerie strokes her creature, as butter yellow sunshine streams into her dreamcatcher. A squiggle fish leaps out of the river and a tree bubbles a new blue world, with fat sillies croaking their mindless wisdom, as they eat.

Confucious: Blue mists blacken the skies around. Keen eyes watch all these elves, nymphs, faeries and lovers. A Zeus paradox on our silver plates clanking against each other. Check our back packs for suspicious things. We are running away from ogres. Slush is slimy and dripping all over our body. Giggles turn into cunning laughter. An ektara beats a slow song. The air grows.

Me: Flakes of subservience float harmlessly to the floating floor… Only to be trampled by the fuzzy shadows of the guardians of the deep. In the depths of the woods, the Ogre licks his wounds and watches the wizened wizard wield his power, in the dark green of his slimy lake. A gnarled hand, covered with warts bursts the blue bubble, And sillies fall harmlessly into the vortex. Distilled suspicion crystallizes in the air and the fragrance of cool cobbled cobra cola mixes with it. Happy is in the air, with a winged blue bull.

Confucious: He stares down at the orange sand. The land of stories. A lonely leaf lies on the extreme right of his vision, in a corner. Curved in it’s bed a viper sleeps in peace. The Ogre reaches fear after years. Droplets roll on his round shiny green head. He watches a puddle form. The thief of heavens prances and gallops in the nearby lawn.

Me: The slinky demon curves around the orange flower, like a deadly lover… Floating fibs circle the melting butterscotch scoop, that drips its friendly cool on the black bear. The liquid ball explodes in silver exuberance, as tendrils of sensation snake their way down, dribbling on dolphins. The bending tree rises in triumph and pink lightning soothes the black bumble-fly.

It's completely random and loads of fun. If you want to be technical about these things you might call it 'SMS poetry' or some such rot... but I think it's a lot better to just call it Randomness.

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