Audita Sum (![[info]](http://www.insanejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} auditasum) wrote,@ 2008-06-04 22:27:00 |
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The Popsicle
a.d. iv Non. Iun. MCCLV
It's 9:06; summer, humid as Jesus's bowels
The sky, a magnified popsicle that I got from the
Ice cream truck, back when this town's magic
Had yet to grow on me-- pink anemones on
A slicey bright everyberry background
Sweeter, colder, not at all thready, flaving of
Cotton candy that didn't burn my throat
Looking at the dusk, I could feel the taste
Before I remembered what it reminded me of
At this time of year, night falls like a
Tranquilized ape in George of the Jungle,
Skin blue and rubbery; hits the ground with a
Thud; it's 9:38; summer, cooling slow, with
Help from large, loud fans
Prompt: What does a string of laughter make you think of?
He let out an awkward string of giggles. It hung in the air afterward, like a clod of sticky string stuck in someone's hair.
BYAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHthis is not working. How about... Describe a hot day.
This is going to be so cheesy. You don't even know.
May 2008f
George's throat was painfully dry. He swallowed his spit once more, coveting with his eyes the bottles of water that some band parents were passing around, condensation gathering like drippy boils.
The heat itself wouldn't have been so bad without the murderous humidity. Marching the last street in all its strikingly verdant glory, George had nearly given up and let his arms swing by his sides, surrendering to shame and comfort. Even now he could feel his heart hammering in his head, deeper and more urgent than the synthiest synth beat that ever was. Mrs. Connor nodded at the band, and George took of his hat, unbuttoned his thick jacket. The still air was almost cool against his sweaty hair, smeared up over his forehead. Some middle-aged woman handed him a water bottle, and he lifted it in shaking hands to his mouth.
The mayor gave a speech, but it the microphone wasn't loud enough for the band, at the fringe of the cemetery, to hear her. The water was a cold knife in George's esophagus. A scarce breeze rustled through the area, and even the trees were louder than her.
George wiped his brow. He was starting to feel unstill, disoriented. Beyond the leaves, abundant as the arms of generous gods, the sky called to him like a huge harbinger of water. His knees were locking into the ground, as if a part of him had been anchored there all along. George breathed long, and when his lungs were full, his body fell forward and hit the grass with a dead-sounding thump.
Dense stars on a vast field of blue, like the high-definition pictures he'd seen on NASA's website. It stung his eyes, the fact that there were so many stars, so many chances. There had to be someone out there. A place where he belonged. But all too soon, red-pink gas clouds like the Northern Lights wreathed him, wrapped around his head like a silk scarf. He was suffocating. He was far-gone.
"He's fine."
George cracked open his eyes. What seemed like the band in its entirety was staring at him, and when they heard this pronouncement, some of them turned away. An elderly veteran was talking about Jesusgod and the part He played in the military. Someone shoved a water bottle into George's mouth, and he choked on the water. "Give the man some air," said a percussionist.
George didn't understand why they'd had to go and ruin it.
a.d. iv Non. Iun. MCCLV
It's 9:06; summer, humid as Jesus's bowels
The sky, a magnified popsicle that I got from the
Ice cream truck, back when this town's magic
Had yet to grow on me-- pink anemones on
A slicey bright everyberry background
Sweeter, colder, not at all thready, flaving of
Cotton candy that didn't burn my throat
Looking at the dusk, I could feel the taste
Before I remembered what it reminded me of
At this time of year, night falls like a
Tranquilized ape in George of the Jungle,
Skin blue and rubbery; hits the ground with a
Thud; it's 9:38; summer, cooling slow, with
Help from large, loud fans
Prompt: What does a string of laughter make you think of?
He let out an awkward string of giggles. It hung in the air afterward, like a clod of sticky string stuck in someone's hair.
BYAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHthis is not working. How about... Describe a hot day.
This is going to be so cheesy. You don't even know.
May 2008f
George's throat was painfully dry. He swallowed his spit once more, coveting with his eyes the bottles of water that some band parents were passing around, condensation gathering like drippy boils.
The heat itself wouldn't have been so bad without the murderous humidity. Marching the last street in all its strikingly verdant glory, George had nearly given up and let his arms swing by his sides, surrendering to shame and comfort. Even now he could feel his heart hammering in his head, deeper and more urgent than the synthiest synth beat that ever was. Mrs. Connor nodded at the band, and George took of his hat, unbuttoned his thick jacket. The still air was almost cool against his sweaty hair, smeared up over his forehead. Some middle-aged woman handed him a water bottle, and he lifted it in shaking hands to his mouth.
The mayor gave a speech, but it the microphone wasn't loud enough for the band, at the fringe of the cemetery, to hear her. The water was a cold knife in George's esophagus. A scarce breeze rustled through the area, and even the trees were louder than her.
George wiped his brow. He was starting to feel unstill, disoriented. Beyond the leaves, abundant as the arms of generous gods, the sky called to him like a huge harbinger of water. His knees were locking into the ground, as if a part of him had been anchored there all along. George breathed long, and when his lungs were full, his body fell forward and hit the grass with a dead-sounding thump.
Dense stars on a vast field of blue, like the high-definition pictures he'd seen on NASA's website. It stung his eyes, the fact that there were so many stars, so many chances. There had to be someone out there. A place where he belonged. But all too soon, red-pink gas clouds like the Northern Lights wreathed him, wrapped around his head like a silk scarf. He was suffocating. He was far-gone.
"He's fine."
George cracked open his eyes. What seemed like the band in its entirety was staring at him, and when they heard this pronouncement, some of them turned away. An elderly veteran was talking about Jesusgod and the part He played in the military. Someone shoved a water bottle into George's mouth, and he choked on the water. "Give the man some air," said a percussionist.
George didn't understand why they'd had to go and ruin it.