these feathers have plumes: corvidae (tartaruga)

rain’s falling. endless fat tears. whorls of wind clawing notsogently around this lumpen thing dreamwalking itself elsewhere. a sibilant clap slowly drowning in noise harsh and soothing, crushed glass in brandy, beak in carrion. i think of the crow, the raven, of news not wanted and sanity uncoiling; the trickster; the creator of life, of light; odin’s huginn and muninn, thought and memory, the mind. i hear the discordant beat and black arrhythmic adagio of a thousand wings at once, a choir of feathers simultaneous microcosmic gleam and ruffle, amplified into one macrocosmic (w)hole. into the sound of the sea, the sound of space, the sound of caves buried deep beneath feet, beneath awareness. an austere obliterative scouring of the land and air and water around us. i hear voices inchoate sighing, gently spectral gasps, creaks and low low moans; a wheezing pneuma informed, huffing around skull, flowering, seeding, blossoming. the songs they speak of thresholds and doorways, of currents and flow, of detachment and transcendence. inbetween moments passed, a blinked epoch peckpeckpecked at by fields of bloodfaced birds with needles for teeth. the sun’s hung like a bruise in the sky now, an opium-lightened murk, woven amongst the electric thrum and hum and occasional lull, pausing for air for composure. stars rise, planets fall. the opposite of movement, the anti-spastic frequency. a wash of reverberating monotheism. a sink of textural swamp.  an ascending sonorous drone. it’s not a revealing, like the removal of. more a step back forward sideways, realising that there is so much everything there is nothing.

tartaruga

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