SOME SELECTED PROSE

Hills of Ajlun

He stares blankly into the horizon, his gaze resting gently on the crests of the green hills. It is a lethargic gaze, which, without the hilltops to support it, would surely fall freely to the ground. In a similar manner, he was resting his chin on his hand, with his elbow propped against the hard wooden counter. Nearby was his fifth cup of tea today, it only being an hour or so past noon, with its fragrant, familiar steam wafting lazily above the rim of the glass. Despite his sloth, he will be sure to not let his tea get cold.

Stare

Her harsh, unrelenting stare pains me. Her eyes fixedly peer through my own, ignoring my dark irides, which, unheard, plead with her to have mercy. With cold determination, they delve past the milky whites and reach into my soul. Not with the reach of gentle hands, which caress with warmth and concern for what lies within, but with a frigid probing which coldly analyzes, uncaring, as a prison warden tears apart a prisoner’s cell. Her eyes are cold, the vast pools which once warmed my soul with their caring looks are now frozen over, desolate, hard, barren of any love or compassion. At one time I could lose myself in her loving gaze, bright ponds which pulsated slightly with a passionate sentiment of endearment. But now she stares at me blankly, unmoved.

Chorus

In this moment can be heard the lamentations of the orphaned. The incessant wailing of the meek, destitute widows who, against their will, demand pity in their cries. The final shrieks of the countless poor souls, taken up from this world in an infinite number of horrific catastrophes of misery, their calls echoed and multiplied, each one followed by a thousand others in their wake. The explosions, as large drums, form a rhythm of growing tempo, with each blast launching the plenary limbs of the unfortunate into the air, fountains of flesh rising from the densely packed ensemble. These sounds converge and form the growing symphony of suffering. 

A Moment of Romance

The feminine to be desired and the masculine who desires.

Her effortless guile and grace, gathering the glances of those around her. She glides across the ground, her gown flowing with each gentle gust of wind. Her focus is unbothered. Her green eyes, large and bright like two fine emeralds, float across the horizon, taking in the beauty of the sky and clouds. Her beautiful face, with a refined, genteel countenance, softly turns atop her slender neck towards nothing in particular.

Evening

The sky in the evening hour as it turns the bright cyan shade of Uranus, quickly darkening into an oppressive Neptune. What can be said about it? The sky becomes thick with hue, no longer the transparent backdrop of earthly life but itself a gelatin throughout which all floats. An opaque broth which envelopes and warms. Wasting the evening on the balcony, watching the color shift. A short window, it passes in less than twenty minutes. Ignore the bitter cold, help oneself to multiple layers and a kettle of tea to quell any distraction. Above oneself is draped a thick cyan mist, intoxicating and alluring. An enchanting visage decorated with stones of topaz and turquoise, sporting a teasing smile. On display is the shyly androgynous beauty of the Uranus sky, with its youthful frolic and gaiety, as it playfully loosens the robes of its clouds. With undue haste it passes by its ardent admirers, and leaves them with the gravely oppressive Neptune, which, with its solemn darkening, lulls one into the realization that it is over, that the object of our admiration has moved on. The mystically enchanting irises which envelop the world, the earth itself the pupil of the beautiful eye, imperceptibly shifts from its innocently playful cyan and into a severe and somber navy, and blinks away into the oppressive darkness. The enchanting beauty which once inspired much longing gives way to a nauseatingly heavy ennui. The romance of what could have been gives way to what is. Focus to the sky. Focus to the shift. It can be felt. It’s dark now, and it’s time to head inside.

Concept II

“He swung his legendary claymore, Grendethal, around his head, causing the swarm of orcs that had gathered around him to leap back. By now word of his heroic feats of strength and virtue had spread across the land, and the mythic power of the blade of Grendethal was known by all. With a powerful lunge, he swung his blade in a great sweeping motion and took the head of the orc captain, Urgthon, our hero’s powerful chest striating as he pulls the blade through his enemy’s thick green neck. The orcish army was shaken, fearing righteous retribution from the muscular, rugged hands of our hero, Huraclion. 

Concept I

I circled the neighborhood several times as it neared evening, watching the bestial masses gathering onto the street, each endeavoring to find some way to find their nut. While deeply disgusted, I was nevertheless intrigued. I envied them. Nothing bothered them, nothing occupied their mind, nothing except their next meal, next sleep, and next fuck. No self consciousness, as that requires a level of self awareness not yet achieved by this crowd. Purely bestial, entirely unchained, entirely wild. 

Prayer of the Meek

“Oh Father who art in Heaven, our most gracious and wondrous Lord,

we beseech thee to undertake the destruction of our foes,

and may our foes find themselves worthy of thy wrath.

Smite them oh Lord, and may they by thy hands be smitten, 

and may they, having been the subject of thy smiting, be reduced to ash.

And, oh Lord, we beseech thee, that accompanying thy smiting of our foes,

Lightning

Foreboding clouds gather above me

As I stand tall in youth and envious vanity

Coveting the power of God, spiteful of destiny, unbounded ability

Suddenly, struck down, smitten by divine fists on the shoulders

Blows of God’s wrath rain upon me, the scolding chastisement of Nemesis

Turned away from Faustian destiny

The truth revealed:

Lie, outstretched and prostrated to fate.

For the Grain Elevator

I think about your marvelous stature, your towering windows, how they overlook the southern railway station and the canning factory. How, from your heights, one can overlook the southern neighborhoods past the Yelshanka river.

And how from your windows, men crowd, intently watching the horizon. From your heights, the barrels of many machine guns simultaneously spew hot lead angrily across the steppe, as voices in a choir, their bullets scattering the many who ardently gaze in admiration, looking up in awe, death shining down as rays from the sun which fall from heaven between the crevices of the clouds. The men cower in the face of your divine posture, fearing the heavy blows which it rains from above. 

Pretension

To write is itself a gross declaration of a deep pretension. To write is to declare to all, “My thoughts are important! So important, that I must export them from my mind into the minds of others. My thoughts, my wondrous thoughts, are to good to simply be my thoughts. They must be everyone’s thoughts. The words in my mind must bounce around in the heads of others, their thoughts, annihilated, replaced with mine.” The vanity of mind, that the mere excrement of thought must be immortalized in word. And truly, thought is excrement. It’s done without intent, unconsciously throughout existence, it appears as does an urge, and the self-aggrandizing so called “author,” rather than discarding of this excrement as everyone else does, feels that he must smear it all across some parchment and shove it in the face of all around him. His glorious declaration, “I think! And this is what I’ve thought!” And without the slightest shame, akin to a toddler declaring that he is now potty trained. Maybe he should’ve been taught how to flush.