Opinion on some prose?
If you dare pass the wall, if you dare face the Tiger
you must wear the mask with two faces while you crawl, and sprint, and graze along the fringe areas, and pass across the edge of the last word rolling off your tongue, and into that space between the awkward moments and the shared lies and that dead silence and that hesitation where you look back and forth and away and hide where your gaze falls tumbling.
to where it crashes lost forever, into the bush and bramble and past the shallow brook eaten alive by raw moonlight and past the broken bridge and out and away under the fence or boundary, path or trail or car or rail and plunges down into the wide brown river that courses at breakneck speed blindly pounding it’s way into the black heart of the jungle.
the beating heart of that jungle
the deep and the dark and the jungle
Where the wet stays hooked and hanging helplessly on the air, where cool rain stagnates, grows hot and infected, and the sun does not dry your skin , and the home and the hearth do not shield you and the downpour does not spare you. Those incadescent, burning tears slide off the dark roots and moss covered rocks and seep, clawing into the hungry black earth to fight and to feed the writhing vines and bulbous purple plants.
And in the temples where young girls crouch as sacrificial lambs. wide and scared and painted thick with made up grease that cakes over their sight so they may not see the jungle outside the palace walls. and they may not see the hooded priest that blindly cleans his knife nor may they gaze upon the true form of the all seeing gilded godess with a thousand limp arms and a thousand dead eyes.
within the dark and the deep there is a thundering procession where the hungry people hang like black birds and blot out the bright blue sky with their nameless forms which flip and tumble and sway from side to side, and ram to the left and to the right of each opposite side.
to shake the wall and slowly bring it down where the pieces would shatter and fall on the ground and eventually become jungle too. jungle as well as everything else.
and on the high hill where the cold quiet kings speak not a word of the souls stewing down below and not a word of the Tiger’s claw, and not a word of that savage god’s great golden eyes, though long has it held them in it’s gaze
and in the middle of the night when it’s shadow swells along the walls where red wreaths hang, and drags those who live on the fringes out of their villages, sliding and slippering in that dry dank mud, but leaving no traces behind them to stand.
where they once fished in their rivers and erected one false home after another. where no mother speaks the name of those who have gone from her womb. and out into that jungle.
where one is devoured another is replaced and the procession goes on and on, and spreads out like a spider’s web for miles around, with the wall and the city and the jungle behind it, always to the south, and to the left and forever behind it, with the wet smell of damp rotting leaves decaying underneath the cloaking scents of perfume in the princess’s palace, and herbs in the medicine man’s trolley, always to the left, and south and behind it. and moves, it marches, ever forward, down towards that jungle.
in the courtyard those lambs who are girls sit in their weary white robes waiting for the procession to move past them and trample them soundly in it’s wake. where the cranes sit lightly on the pond, and the wind billows softly at the printed gauze only to be stopped by the wall head on, and the temple cats sit, crouching on the face of that very wall and looking far out into the black to where they once walked as savage gods
In the jungle.
(This was actually inspired by a dream with specific images but it turned into a weird social allegory, thank you very much for noticing that bit of it.
As far as the run ons go they were supposed to be on purpose, but there might be a problem if you can’t tell. I’ll have to look at it again. xD)
Players Club Tours answers:
Despite your run on sentences, and failure to capitalize, which are easy to fix, this prose was vivid, verbose, and exciting to read.
The following two segments were my favorite, and remind me of work I read of an old favorite author of mine (whose name I can’t recall at this time – long time ago).
“Those incandescent, burning tears slide off the dark roots and moss covered rocks and seep, clawing, into the hungry black earth to fight and to feed the writhing vines and bulbous purple plants,” (wow, could start a good tale from that point) and, “where they once fished in their rivers and erected one false home after another; where no mother speaks the name of those who have gone from her womb and out into that (adj) jungle.” The second, is kind of analogy for common life today, or at least a reflection of it.
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