I awoke like Rip van Winkel coming back as Britney parts his beard. Sexy is back in the forest.
The minuet of solitude surrendering to the beat one more time, one more time.
He crouched on the fringes of the village, watching the fire play on the faces – tracing the patterns that he would soon make across those happy faces.
That kinship lost in the eternity spent on the other side of the wall, he licked century-old crumbs flaked on his lips, hungry — wonton.
That beard remembered those sexy times when it was kept and groomed. Women would line up to touch it. These stripes of honor have turned to lines of loneliness.
Somewhere deep in his grumble he knew dainty fingers would no longer tingle those whiskers, too foreign to the touch, too coarse with age — the knowledge of the stars; the micro- and the macro- and the mega- and the meta-dimensions.
Dancing to the flickering of the neurons ignited by psylocybin. Dark light. Dark light. Burning bright. That lick of the flicker. He could taste their sweat, their passion, their blood in the cracks of his teeth.
A moment came and went before him, he refused to act, to not act. He let it pass. It would circle back.
He ballerina spiraled his cigarette butt out. Each puff dragged him toward fate. But, that smoke held a mystery. There was comfort in that darkness.
Through the haze a figure appeared, circling in closer with each exhalation. Contouring and dissipating, redefining memories born and long-forgotten in his mind.
I can’t tell if this cat that I’m talking to is real. This fractal tabby is an asshole, but he’s right.
I’m reminded of younger days, when the world span faster and days took less time to pass, when the stars teased the sun as it set on the other side of this blank expanse of empty mountain ranges and barren rivers, before all these dancing smiling faces and the lingering oils of maidens sustaining the last threads of ancient whiskers.
The little girl asked, “How old are you?” I replied, “I am forever.” I have been there. I will be here. Forever. That is my curse. Forever, I will be a child. I am Peter trapped in Wonderland. Please help me, Wendy. Wendy? Wendy…
“It’s Britney, bitch.”
This piece was created by Chase Springer and Alexander Tague through an exquisite corpse type game where they passed lines back and forth between each other. Alexander started it and Chase ended it. We’ll hit you one more time, baby…
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