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10 November 2016 @ 03:20 pm
iron rose  
in the movie she becomes somebody else like we all become somebody else, in the end, in the telling, in every manner of mirroring narrative, because in the end she isn't remotely who anyone assumed her to be. it's a fatal mistake. it's a death or death matter. to the death, one way and the other. someone will die and someone will die. death rolls out before us, to the far horizon in every direction. death takes a sharp turn to the right. and that's the way of it, bones clattering bones, bones on the ground and bones in the dirt, bones stacked up on bones, a bone-dusted repository for bones. in the end she becomes somebody else. bones tumbling over bones. bones dancing the circuit between function and exposure: bones dancing clear the boundary between the dead and the soon to be dead, the soon enough to be dead, i need air, there's not air, are you listening to me? are you listening for me? can you hear my rattling bones?

she screams, she sounds the boundary. she screams, she gives it form. she screams into the night, over the bones over, the graveyard. graves again graves, graves jammed up against graves, and again over themselves, four graves deep in places, the wrought iron markers eventually collapsing over themselves, breaking to bits, to bones and bits, the wrought iron markers bones for the scatter rusting over themselves again under, four graves deep. her lover's fraternal torment becomes an initiation he will not endure, an initiation he is not meant to endure: in the movie he becomes somebody else. you know what it's like. who you wake up with is not who you fell asleep with, that's a given, but what happens to your dreams in a night without sleep?

in the dream we collapse at each other's contradictions. bits and bones. bones and bits. a bone to pick, we pick at each other's masks. no matter can be taken lightly since the power went out. powerless, we wear each other's masks. we forget the masks are on until our first kiss clinks ceramic. in the dream i can't help myself. it's like i'm possessed. then again, of course. i pick up the shawl. i dance it in place. i dance out the quarters. i call the quarters. i call the elements: death and death and death and death. death above. death below. the circle is cast. we are between the worlds:

we are between the worlds. since tuesday night i have sleep with a dagger at my side. since tuesday night i have slept with a devil mask on the wall. i sleep in a pile of bones, as a pile of bones, bones piling up over themselves, rattle rattle, rattle again rattle, howl it out, scream it loose: and listen, and listen, and again listen. listen to me. i said fucking listen. if only he'd listened they'd have lived through the night. if only they'd listened maybe i'd have lived to forty-six. if only he hadn't let her remember the mask on the wall, the knife by her bed. if only, if only. the wind blows with only. and a scream that starts outside the body, coming in slowly from a long way back, coming in slowly from the intent and the mean, coming in slowly, nuzzling up like a cat, pressing contact that could be affection, that reads as affection, but that, in the end, is simply another territory marked. and like that. and like that. mark it out. call it done. and the scream comes in slowly, but it comes in nonetheless, no worse for wear, no easy thing. it sounds the boundary. the place where their connection breaks. the place where all connections break. the place of breaking, bone from bone, heart from mind, body from body, pull out, pull out, pull out or the cord the binds us could manifest in another's bloody scream of that broken trust. but then again:

no one will ever know. and again: no one will ever know. once down the crypt, once in the voting booth, it makes no difference: no one will ever know what actually occurred. she closes the doors and the doors stay shut. she closes the door and her dance is done. she closes the door and no one will ever know: the perfect murder. in its way, every murder is perfect, because perfection can only exist in death. i mean nothing can be added. i mean nothing can be taken away. i mean that's what we have, what it was in the end. that's what we take to the scales, and the only person who knows the whole truth of the matter is dead. i mean in death we are essentially what we've always been as well as what we were always meant to be. i mean it's where we are always going and where we were always going to go. it makes us someone else, always someone else again. again in the end, that's who were were always going to be: the end.

music: bmc - unnamed female protagonist