A terror sponge slipped into her sleeping mouth, the pin prick point sticks into her bulging vein: warm slot machine handle pulls back and spins the three way butterfly headbanger. Weeping willows cram their dandylion fluff heads up into the exhaust pipes of the swallow, that feeding hopping chatting bird that has been shading under the marble birdbath since the first sunlight stuck up her hands in the robbery of that night squall.
..Here comes consciousness: straw swept from the splintered wooden door, open door: damp metal wind. Somewhere grass flattened and yellowed under the weight the cold shadow of the back of the girl falling onto the grass in the backyard behind the fence in the cattails and the river roars behind her as the rush floes knock her titanic bowl and lifeboats sail from the bee clouds, anchors away, the shaking rumbling ground opens wider and wider until the blackened clay baby seeps out of the muck.
..Animals pick up the scent of the kill and creep in their mocasins to the blood source, the sapping trees split with axes, the fear frozen bushes. Berries are laying on the trail and a plastic yellow bucket tipped over blue berries rolling and rolling, their own rolling little worlds. In the flushing meadows of still bilge a humming dragonfly hurls her mother of pearl body into the eyes of cyclists rumbling down the tin can hill. The girl was ready to skid wipe when the road hits the pavement, but now the wings whip into her pupils and eyes close/speed speed flips into ditch and the culvert drips like a mouth wide open.

Behind that honey golden fence in that high sun, this young girl hikes those rosen panties and her hands writhe names and constellations on her legs, she can smell the source of the blood, joins like the animals in the search for a fresh taste. Bulls storm the castle, her castle of dreams stands in a cactus bed dust plate, a tectonic sleepwalker stumbles and bumps everything from its gravity hold, shaking pink bodies and their hairless vulnerability. Drawbridge burns smoulder full of arrows, the moat is full of extinction. Inside there are empty glasses with silver spoons and the little spoons are finger printed with beautiful thumb prints that are warm and sweet for sucking.
..She is behind the fence now chasing a dragonfly with a broken wing and the sick biplane chokes and rises in the drafts and barely misses trees and she swings her dimpling arms and laughs the sweet laugh of sleep, chasing and laughing forever she does and her breasts are rolling the lonely circles of the planets, the sun is spinning her slow summer slows in the stickyness.
..The dragonfly drops exhausted on the fence post and there in the small backyard clearing with the trees and the smell of chopped wood and fire from the chimney and the door of the cabin is wide open, inside the sounds of water running, filling glasses, tinkling spoons. She jumps high into space and colored moons shine in her eyes as she sinks into the river.
..Standing up from the cold laugh she swings her arms and hits her open hand against the rusted brown pail that is sunk in the sandy bank and it echoes hollow metal bonk

Blood spins on the surface of the water and she stands still and straight/inhaled with water dripping down her cheeks and her shoulders and her back. Danceblood was peeking from her finger, she clamped the hand and the blood oozed, she looked up into the sun and the white sky dropped heavy sandbags onto her brain.
..In the tall stemmed itch out back she lays with a cotton hem bandage pulled around her finger, her hands were open palmed to the sky. The headrush drug break swirled into her sinus again, her body tensed, her skin turned thin and fragile. Her rose printed underwear was pressing hot seams into her thighs, she wiggled out of them like a cocoon, and tossed them onto the anthill. There was a wind in her ears, the wind of the dragon fly or the wind of her own game, she knew only the wind was blowing the sound of crackling wet wood on the forest floor and the sound of rolling bicycle tires. Water pours around the ferns growing in riverbed pails, seeding grass spilling their parachutes against the black noses of the animals running towards the smell of blood, running near the tin can hill and the lawn of white stones, hard and sharp.
..There in the dust cloud a huge billowing fear was a small girl. Not moving not moving her legs or her arms, her hair was pushed over her face and covered in tears, tangled in blood. Banana seat peddle bike was upside down in the ditch, front wheel spinning broken spokes as if her foot had gotten caught in the spinning loss of control.


Sound of bees and mosquitoes land and sting the soft red shoulder of the poor crumpled lonely. She opens, sees a fence and large trees through the dust falling confetti, sees something moving in the berry bushes in the distance, bushes moving and black birds caw and flap like burning clothes. Numb timber splints shoot into her legs and blouse, dress, knees skinned and torn and red with blood, something is moving in the blue berry patch, a a voice calling out. She turns to her bike all broken pipes and blacks out into a tin hole, black hollow wind. Across the field she was brought, through the gate in the golden fence, across the border that was the stream, into the cottage and then to a bed.
..Small room with one window and voices in the distance, she can hear a voice sounding from another room, the creaking handle of a pump in a sink, a chair sliding on the planked floor,a clock with an irregular beat. She sunk into the springs, deep into a cave, a warm cocoon slipped around her, carried her into the saturn glove. Freehand spiders printed their slogans across light year leaps, the dawn brought up the lively flowers into the cool dew and the ground began seething with the bacterial sucklings of life. Hummingbird connectors swarm the sap hole and sink into the hot sugar pie that is morning.
..The world turns on her magical plexus.

The dragonfly flew from the far side of the river and through kaleidescope peepers saw a world of many beauties but in a flurry of windstorm backfire, a huge skin wall, a close-up zoom face came banshee hammer on, ending her fragile life. This girl with a billowing dress and twisting handle bars crashed onto the hard road and in an instant gravity stabbed her with a knife point flashback. Memory caught up and cut her and this was her first experience with the pain of experience.
..Once while stumbling along as a small child in short pants on an autumn day while geese had flew with their lovelies away and there was only happiness. She bounced along the sidewalk and was suddenly attracted to the attention of a small black and yellow fuzzy wuzzy bubble bee, she bent down and her little knees hung under her chin and she wrapped her arms around her shins and her hair fell over her eyes and she spoke to the tiny bubble bee and was learning the truth about the force that lives within the little. Then, from behind her a nameless, faceless, somebody let out a growl and a black shoe came down and crushed the flying honey heart, crushed it and walked away and as she looked in horror at the spot where it had been was only a wet stain a little mound of goo, no color, only grit cement.Big cloud faces appeared, branches bent and waved hello, clowns. The bandage was soaked red, she stood up, time lapse blossom, put on wet clothes and padded bare feet down the animal path beside the river. She went to the berry patch and began filling the yellow plastic pail with big fat blue berries stain fingers blue lips.

The bandage soaked with juices, turned purple and sickly, turned like the sky did into thickening dark rolls. Fade in noise there, there, she turned her head trying to pinpoint the sound crumbling machine collapse, a scream bullet shot into her. Then silence with head pound breathing. Breathing from the the road, sounded like when she had rolled a tire down tin can hill, hollow wind chimes followed by the sound of a window crashing in a bucket.
..A breathing dark fear like something at night under a bed. Her hand opened, dropped the bucket, and ran towards the road: wind and branches grabbing long hair, feet stepping on bark and stones. She found a girl lying at the bottom of the hill, middle of the road, bent in the potholes, her dress flower print, torn and bloodied. She bent down to look into the eyes of the girl who was covered in tears and dust and spit, bent down and knees came up under her chin, looked into the shining slits where her eyes would be. A two wheeled toy is crippled in the ditch, oil can wrapped through the spokes.
.. Smelling of blood, she didn't move but a soft growling liquid bubble is born in her throat, a rasping gargle from the mouth. This raggedy anne girl, little flopping doll with no voice and no strength, brought from the road to the cottage, brought to bed. As the day sunk into night and bats screeched and clapped, tar paper cut out clouds all fibre blocked out the moonie man. Crackling fire in the cottage and sparks skidded out onto the floor with the big wet bag sound.

 

Flies hide and seek in the chinook currents rolling out the door, out to the night hiding the animals who move in close to the fesh scent, move in close under the bed. In the sleepy head house of the nightime picture shows came a strange appirition: carnival pipe organ music blew like smoke through short leavless trees, galloping calypso finger with a blue bandage sunk in the warm red quicksand: teeth grit lips pulled smiling breathing heavy flaring eyes clenched sinking sinking into a pool with flash lights and bubbles rolling from the hands and legs and clinging to the skin and eyes open into a vaseline glass, smeary and distant, warring animal waterfall plunging into a clear waveless pool.
.. Floating wide open, like a star fish offered to the sun, floating for hours then washing up on the white beach, like a great endangered whale coming to rest without a struggle. She leaves footy prints pigeon toeing in the sand, leavless trees with their steel wool ringing harpsicord scarecrow, there is no-one. There are only footprints leading past the tall grass with the yellow flattened patch where someone laid for a long time; footprints into the yard of the white wash house, footprints up to a girl who is standing outside on the smooth stones in front of a table stirring glasses of pulpy drink. She doesn't turn around or even move her head, she just stirred and there was the sound of a glass bell ringing. She doesn't turn her head or even move. In the middle of her pale naked back, large like a walnut, a bee sucks and buzzes.

fin
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others
letters
pores and living life swizzle stick together inside your little arm
the suicidal
there will always be fat smoking shoppers
the velvet fishbowl dream
a huge tongue was scratching my face and i was tossed like a doll in the dirt
postoperative
synthetic morphine and the sound of wind and wheels and car crash sunset
the junkie's bombshell contract
suddenly you can feel the melt water turning to boil water
dragonflies
a breathing dark fear like something big at night under a bed

‡ MUSIC ‡ PAINTINGS ‡ PHOTOS ‡BIO ‡ GUESTBOOK ‡DAVE'S FILM PICKS ‡ EMAIL ‡

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© David Milligan