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Fox C. Crowe
i_paparazzi
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Nothing is good in the world and the skies are icy and the ground frigid; the world is claustrophobic and I've never felt so lonely.

It isn't unique, it isn't anything. But, everything angers me. Music about love and films about romance and so many goddamn people telling me about all the wonderful things happening... For the first time in my life I feel there is no point.

Just... blank. Nothing's good.

Nothing could combat the desire to look beyond the warmth and the glass, and witness something beautiful. But the season had not changed.

This was a stellar monday, on the chilly forefronts of heat, and desperation. It was seven a.m. He slipped on a tattered pair of sneakers and walked outside, into the summer morning. There was nothing gorgeous in the world, and on this morning the desert seemed that much more confined.

Then, she fell.

The sky rumbled, and the shadow of the woman's body grew larger as she descended. She fell out of the sky like a bag of sleek, dead weight. He saw her form falling as he lit his morning cigarette, pondering the desolation of privilaged living.

When the woman crashed at his toes, the ground beneath her chipped, and the boy's first thoughts were what his mother's angry cries would be, how the profane and righteous would slosh together in an amalgam of ferocity and aggression. But those thoughts exploded into the bright morning sky, because this was an attractive woman.

Her volumous black hair was inhabited by a different presence, for it held its shape and grandeur despite the fall. Her eyes were closed, but even then he felt the emerald beneath her fallen lids. Her legs were slender and lengthy, and everything she wore was black, and stately.

She has been to a funeral, he thought.

The boy fell instantly in love, and took the woman as his lover, though she was fallen and dead. Months passed, and still the season remained locked and identical to the days preceeding newer ones. He rested her sprawled form onto his basement bed and cared for her delicate physical qualities.

Then, one morning, the beautiful woman had left. He awoke and saw a small note where the beautiful lover had been. And the note read: Look out the window.

He did, and was greeted by beautiful colored leaves and snowflakes. Basking in the change of a new season, the boy's eyes closed and his lips twitched and a smile slowly crawled accross his face.

The boy floated away.

A sharpness in their eyes was cast over by shadow in the dusk.

The open sky was a denser kind of violet, and the avenue lived with the hustle of dead things. The clouds were without form, and they grew more wispy with every second melting into the minute, and the minute into the hour; they writhed in the sky.

The sidewalk grew to be a relentless stretch of dreaming. Once or twice, their lips met, and, in their eyes, they became the cold space between two warm bodies. Then, the snowflakes came and the world was tranquil. They stepped a thousand times and went no further than their supposed love allowed, and in the desperate abyss of that dream, reality was distant and tasted sour.

Together, boy and girl, in the dead, shadowy dusk; they were looking for something. Their fingers overlapped on one another and, still, they became closer in the night, now. Dusk ended, but the air remained brisk. The snow fell, and the boy was flooded by a joy he hadn't known for seasons. Finally his eyes and the sky met, and the reunion was blessed by some wretched past oath he'd forgotten. These were the hours of joy.

Beneath the envelope of a living promise at ten p.m., the girl felt autumn nestled in her bones, and the world became a home. She lived in the purple, fall night with her love grasping her fingers and the snow flakes making their hair white and the abandoning of doubt wrapped up and warm in some jovial reality she couldn't know again.

They came upon a small crying man, together. At the edge of the sidewalk, underneath the trees, huddled and watching his tears soak the ground; the smoke escaping his mouth clouded the crown of thorns he wore, seemingly unbeknownst to him. He was pathetic like a small twig in November. The small crying man asked them for love and the boy and the girl opened their palms and made the man warm again, and his tears evaporrated into the autumn sky, where it was night but it was a dense violet.

It rained, and there were spiders crawling on his face.

Between the windows of darkness, where the sliver of light refracted and shone like death over his eye, a phantom thread descended and he screamed.

He lived beneath the world, where the conrete was cold and the spiders nested. The walls were yellow and cracked, and the floor was gray and unconvincing. He slept in a ragged bed with holes, and there were boxes of things from life that he never opened and there was the television which was still on but showing static.

Underneath the planet where the souls were brisk and unfriendly and his body shivered, the television lulled him to sleep, but there were still spiders. He knew that outside was the desert, and it was hot and baron there. He preferred lying inside the earth, beneath the world, and being caught half-way in a sleepwalk dance, never preferring to know where the nightmare had its climax.

The spiders were a light brownish color; eight spindly legs and pincers where teeth should have been. They were grotesque and bulbous and their intentions could only have been profane. They looked almost slippery in the slice of light over his eye. He was frozen with fear, and much too paralyzed to brush them off his face.

What if they crawled underneath him and devoured him, whole? Or took up living beneath his pillow and multiplied? There were too many variables to consider and he did not feel informed enough to make a well-conceived decision, so they crawled on his face, still, and chills shot up his spine like bullets in the night.

The mosquitoes were dying, and the scent of the fall came.

His head collapsed into the cement so that he fractured and the ground was stained red. Then, the cloud of smoke descended onto his body and consumed him, whole. They could not see the ghastly figure of their dead friend, and they cried softly, like the patter of rain in October.

The children disappeared into the fog and left him to rot in the horrible sun of the following morning, and the tree stood lonely in the park and embraced the boy, and he bled into the sidewalk some more. Then the birds came, and fed on his body, and not a soul came to relieve the boy of his disrespect.

The boy watched his body dissolve into the birds and the sun, and he was appalled and sorrowful. He could not tell where he existed or how it had come to be that he existed at all, and there was only a nagging sense of some lost purpose that was beyond his reach in a world where he no longer belonged.

He could not budge. His eyes were fixed beyond his control, and they were glued to the rotting corpse that was a life.

Between the windows of branches that captured tiny pockets of space, everyone became absent in the fold.

There were tiny vacancies inside worlds that screamed and shattered notions.

My Finest Work...

The Season, the Place...Collapse )

We wake up in St. Louis, Missouri; there's a dark, lonesome bridge that's littered with needles.

The air is more brisk than death; my eyes unhinge, and there's a sharp point a few lifetime's away from my pupil. I wipe the crust away, and she's not there. We are not beneath the bridge, together. I cannot bear the lonesome feeling; to be away without my circus girl.

I pry myself from the cold, stone earth -- and then I stumble a few feet -- and, suddenly:

BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP!

I'm nearly crushed by a sleek, black, gas-guzzling phantom. The bridge arches high and mighty over some polluted two-lane highway. This is only another black story, to be filed away; there is nothing new about it. We're permeated by the same rush of deceit and hopelessness, and we will not tell a soul.

This is only another black story. And she is not here.

I whisper, 'Where are you?'

There is no answer, and I do a sleepwalk dance through the bridge, shielding my eyes from the sun with my fingers.

'Betty?'

I inch closer, through the cold, gray bridge. Sun floods my senses and I cannot think or feel. Where is she?

'Betty. Where are you?'

Then there is a flurry of ash descendng from above, gracefully dancing to the paved floor. My words echo and reverberate off of hard, honest stone into my soul:

"Betty! I love you!"

The town drank it up; all the blind smiles were promises to God. The town was called something, and the people were nothing. This was a night composed of the death of dreaming, but the pictures wouldn't be forgotten: The spindly wires that hosted multi-colored street lanterns, and the way a beer looks in the moonlight, and the jovial faces of drunk men and women dodging questions to make love. Now and then a child would disappear into the night; many sincere aims died in the street, and the town was oblivious. And if the laughter hadn't been the loudest thing, many people would've heard the evening weeping.

But, the town drank it up.

This was a repository for the unjust, and the insincere. But, then, the beautiful became sincere, here. The town was called something, and it drank it up, every night. The town drank up the love and the irritation and the abandon and called it a wash; there wasn't a soul without mad, wild passion coursing through his mind and his blood. The people were nothing, but they became dreamers in this nameless town and then their dreams died at nighttime, and they became something. The how's and why's and when's of having your soul injected with substance was a mystery lost to the beautiful, wild people in the town.

Their sweetest friends' tears are only deliberate pauses in an orchestra. The sky is devout, now -- like a tomb, and there is no grinning prophecy for the wicked or the innocent. It is grey, and it is full of life. Brisk gusts bite at some skinny girl's ankles, and her nose turns red, like a clown. And all the king can accomplish is the supression of his solemn weeping, watching his beautiful clown dance, free, in the gray parking lot in autumn.

There is an ugly boy who stands in the corner and watches the clown dance and weeps with the king. The clown's face touches him to his bone and chews on his heart. The ugly boy scrapes static tragedy off his shoulders and then he screams a lonely scream and he demands that the clown place her lips on his and take him away from the scars of the gray earth. But she does not pay him any mind, and like he never existed, she dances and the king weeps and the ugly boy remains in his corner.

They watch the clown dance in the parking lot by the church and they weep because she is so beautiful. The ugly boy will always remain in his small, black corner and he will watch the clown, always. And the king will never stand and wipe the tears from his eyes or brush his robe, he will always be self-serving. And the invisible orchestra will continue to pour notes from the sky that duel the lonely thoughts. And, the pretty clown will always dance like it was of no consequence, at all.

The notes fill the earth and drown all the souls and they die alike; equality is the absolute rule. But the beautiful dancing clown lives, still. She dances above the clouds. And summer arrives and all the despair is born into the wind again, and the clown will wait until the sky is gray and the orchestra plays again.

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