10-20-2016, 10:45 PM
<center><div style="border:1px solid #000;width:500px;background:#000 url('http://i.imgur.com/SJbaTrt.jpg') no-repeat;padding-top:330px;padding-bottom:20px;"><div style="width:460px;background:#ccc;color:#000;border:1px solid #000;font-size:12px;text-align:justify;"><div style="padding:20px;"><center><div align=center style="width:400px;border-bottom:1px dashed #000;padding-bottom:5px;letter-spacing:1px;"><i>I called you to announce sadness falling like burned skin
I called you to wish you well, to glory in self like a new monster
And now I call you to pray</i></div></center>
He knows the crook-back of this Mountain. Her pock-marked ugliness and the more beautiful and fecund valley held tight below, between her rocky thighs. He had clung to her tit like a newborn until his lungs sung for mercy. She has a way of telling someone when their time is up.
Tight-chested and dry-mouthed, she drove him from her like a unwelcome bedmate, unclean and incomplete in the naked dawn.
When he could not sleep – (when last had he been able to sleep soundly? before the ice and snow? before even then?) – he thought not just of Norwegian mysteries, but also of her spine and ribs; her thin, wiry hair of lichen; her thievery and her entitlement; the glint of mica on her cheek; he traced his own nimble footsteps across her hard, grey skin, over and over. He chased his crown and mantle like a dethroned king,
—when he did finally sleep, he dreamed of colorful shanties and broken bones; of a ram’s skull baking in the sun, high on some mountain top.
(It is coming fast, racing up to him like the ground does a falling man. He is so close, sometimes he can feel the heft of his headgear when he wakes up
She’d have to give it all back someday. Had their not been an agreement? A contract signed in missing body parts and coercion?)
He cannot feel the moment when his grand, beautiful wings wither and fall from his body like overripe fruit. Nor the moment when his single wing comes to rest from his shoulder, limp like a cloak. But his head feels heavier, and his feet designed for this climb as they each cleave in two. Only that he welcomes them, for a time they stave off his thirst and the feeble feeling in his throat.
He slips into invisibility, even through darkness has crested the stone. Just for the feeling.
Power.
He moves on her in his full glory – these moments have become sweet as a feast to him – until he spies the other man, scaling the eyesore like so many unsure bodies, rebirthed. He too has a grace that others do not. They share that, this shadow and gifter. Pollock may not have this man’s night vision, but his caprine feet are made for her crags.
(Conquerors. Ever the arrogant son.)
“A mountain at night is a dangerous place.” His voice does not have that slipperiness. No, he has no interest in this flesh.
(He is right to have hidden his girls.)
The golden stallion tilts his head, examining the shade that makes restless work of his body.
<center><div align=center style="width:400px;border-top:1px dashed #000;padding-top:5px;letter-spacing:1px;">POLLOCK
<i>the gift giver</i></div></div></div></div></center>
I called you to wish you well, to glory in self like a new monster
And now I call you to pray</i></div></center>
He knows the crook-back of this Mountain. Her pock-marked ugliness and the more beautiful and fecund valley held tight below, between her rocky thighs. He had clung to her tit like a newborn until his lungs sung for mercy. She has a way of telling someone when their time is up.
Tight-chested and dry-mouthed, she drove him from her like a unwelcome bedmate, unclean and incomplete in the naked dawn.
When he could not sleep – (when last had he been able to sleep soundly? before the ice and snow? before even then?) – he thought not just of Norwegian mysteries, but also of her spine and ribs; her thin, wiry hair of lichen; her thievery and her entitlement; the glint of mica on her cheek; he traced his own nimble footsteps across her hard, grey skin, over and over. He chased his crown and mantle like a dethroned king,
—when he did finally sleep, he dreamed of colorful shanties and broken bones; of a ram’s skull baking in the sun, high on some mountain top.
(It is coming fast, racing up to him like the ground does a falling man. He is so close, sometimes he can feel the heft of his headgear when he wakes up
She’d have to give it all back someday. Had their not been an agreement? A contract signed in missing body parts and coercion?)
He cannot feel the moment when his grand, beautiful wings wither and fall from his body like overripe fruit. Nor the moment when his single wing comes to rest from his shoulder, limp like a cloak. But his head feels heavier, and his feet designed for this climb as they each cleave in two. Only that he welcomes them, for a time they stave off his thirst and the feeble feeling in his throat.
He slips into invisibility, even through darkness has crested the stone. Just for the feeling.
Power.
He moves on her in his full glory – these moments have become sweet as a feast to him – until he spies the other man, scaling the eyesore like so many unsure bodies, rebirthed. He too has a grace that others do not. They share that, this shadow and gifter. Pollock may not have this man’s night vision, but his caprine feet are made for her crags.
(Conquerors. Ever the arrogant son.)
“A mountain at night is a dangerous place.” His voice does not have that slipperiness. No, he has no interest in this flesh.
(He is right to have hidden his girls.)
The golden stallion tilts his head, examining the shade that makes restless work of his body.
<center><div align=center style="width:400px;border-top:1px dashed #000;padding-top:5px;letter-spacing:1px;">POLLOCK
<i>the gift giver</i></div></div></div></div></center>
![[Image: kkN1kfc.png]](http://i.imgur.com/kkN1kfc.png)