This is not a finished thought. I have no idea where it is going or what it wants to be.
Fragments of An Organ
Against the wall pieces of the doorway
begin to connect themselves in ways
foreign to passage
There is a sound like paper burning
the joints are grasping making out
tonging They are making themselves a cathedral
a soundway
They will be an organ before they are done
Pieces of hands lay about the floor
fingers
like dynamite
They are not real hands
they mannequin and pale themselves and become sand that could become glass
if only someone had fire
-
What a sound - the end of days - the reeds on the water will be the only thing to communicate with - the color of the moon before snow - a scent of lilac and sweat -
-
Impassive
&
Unrelenting
Words tossed against a chest of drawers like laundry
- how did you begin to see into the crystal ball of this skull -
Motionless & -
At some point the doorway had to be reconciled - burned
or released - or -
There was an inability to let it go
A sort of keylessness in the vetting
someone said that the man before us was a sociopath - others said he was just emotionless and distant - one called him a monster and pushed him into the burning effigy of Guy Fawkes
-
We are in a basement and there is the sound of music above us
It drifts through the sparse boards of the ceiling
It is a dirge
For others perhaps a wistful memory keeper
Here it plays out the burning of a church that is a memory
We are terrorists in this mind
Here to burn holes
The door frames attempt to re-
And we laugh at their feebleness
They manage to make noise
That is all before they collapse
We use them to construct a barrier
-
I was trying to find my way into the memory of sound in the giant room with the giant organ - to discover if the emotion rang there - if it hung from a light fixture - if it was kindling - it was not there to be found -
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