[VIT2018] My Veil Is Ignorance.
She'll come again tonight, I'm certain of it.
Pools of wisdom reflecting the streetlights from the nearby road and that steady breath pluming into the last
evening of October. And she's a big bugger too.
It's getting cold and I wish I'd bought those fishermen socks from the jumble sale now, damn I wish I even had the
money to buy them. But that's problem with a quest, real life gets in the way and stifles free-thought, just like these
leaf-bare alders defuse the wind that dances high above me.
Still, she'll be here soon and the tedious life I knew will just become a leg-flinching dream that sometimes stumbles
across an unwanted memory. The levy required by society can go to hell, I left school in the same manner I was
bundled into it and now a future of unemployment, being in debt for the rest of your life and the age-old trial of keeping
up with the Joneses holds no passion for yours-truly. Certainly not like the fever I have for her.
My Ma will worry of course. I guess there'll be nights when she'll finish mopping the assembly-room floor at the school
for kids with special-needs and ignoring the stench of hot bleach, she'll look out of the window.
The bright fluorescent lights will hinder her study -of course, and all she'll see is her doleful reflection staring back.
But her class-bridled mind will ask the question she asks every night... 'where did my son go?', when her appeal should
really be where did she go.
Not long now, the darker in the dark near her favourite tree. A union that shouldn't be, but a love that defies nature itself.
My Pa won't miss me, if I'm not at the bottom of a bottle. His concern will only floret when he's too-drunk to walk home
and needs his work-shy runt-of-a-kid to support him home. He won't miss me.
There are movies where fathers and sons toss a baseball to each other or pass a mutual smile between each other as
they finish building a fence on a hot afternoon.
Yeah Hollywood. They ask you to leave the veil of reality on the counter where your ticket awaits.
But those cigar-smoking rich fellas never talk about that when the credits roll and the crumbs of popcorn are wiped from
your duffel-coat, you have to pick up that damned burden and step back onto the path of banality.
They say this land is too small to hold such creatures, the boffins in their white coats and stupid spectacles. They were
the weak ones I hated at school and the ones I envied when the teaching stopped. But who's the smart one now?
Not enough food, no physical evidence and mere wishful-thinking of the internet, who's the smart one now?
I have a sister, and even though she attends the place where my Ma washes the floor every weekday evening, she's
special beyond her needs. If there's a regret to what I'm leaving tonight, it's her... the only one who can still hold the
magic.
...................................................................
There she is, all hair and nervous muscle. I will not sully what my heart feels by describing the forest-queen that will
take me to her world of herb-aroma and night-silence. She is woman, although not my species. She wants me and
I need her.
A passing car throws a fleeting curtain of light across our leaf-littered rendezvous and for a moment I glimpse her
heavy breasts and agitated gaze, she wants to be away and ideally, with her man. Arms of hard sinew sway back
and forth in her skittishness and hands of leather clench their chagrin for the delay.
Praying for no twig-snap or the snag of a bramble, I step forward and with air trapped in my lungs I stride towards my
future. The promise of sanguine survival awaits and a chance to know how this world really turns.
No more frowns from parents and no more mocking-eyes from those beyond the wood.
If those clever-ones at school could see me now.
Her presence is commanding, a brute to some and a ghost to others. Her scent whispers of wild roaming and slumber
in undergrowth. Unkempt hair hides her sex and denies the weather, she represents the truth that cinema moguls can
never capture. I stand in her company and breathe in her savage majesty.
Then with an outstretched arm, I'm taken. Like bromidic academia tells us, neanderthal wedlock involved the physical
accruing and turning towards the shadows, I'm thrown over her shoulder and our honeymoon begins.
Like a ribbon from my sister's hair, that veil of reality is discarded to the night-wind.
That world that demands procedure, that snarls conventionality as a pressing imperative for humans, is now behind
me and twisting my head, I see it fade as the streetlights disappear.
Through ploughed fields and under a crescent moon we travel. Hedgerows and barren copses, forgotten places and
obscure knolls, the terrain of my beloved carriage. An owl hoots at our passing and somewhere in the ferns and bracken,
a mouse thinks to itself -that at least for one night, it's not the design of the night-killer.
My fingers touch the pumping tendons of her great back beneath her hirsute pelt and I believe her pace is quickening.
A clan or a solitary grotto awaits...? I care not for such human concerns of prospectiveness. It is meaningless when
you take the contract to live in the real.
Then my ruminations stop. That world of pungent wild herbs and Autumn-morning foraging, that Arcadia of breathing
the Summer evenings and admiring the textures of a dwindling wild, my fingers find a reality I had never foreseen.
A zipper.
She'll come again tonight, I'm certain of it.
Pools of wisdom reflecting the streetlights from the nearby road and that steady breath pluming into the last
evening of October. And she's a big bugger too.
It's getting cold and I wish I'd bought those fishermen socks from the jumble sale now, damn I wish I even had the
money to buy them. But that's problem with a quest, real life gets in the way and stifles free-thought, just like these
leaf-bare alders defuse the wind that dances high above me.
Still, she'll be here soon and the tedious life I knew will just become a leg-flinching dream that sometimes stumbles
across an unwanted memory. The levy required by society can go to hell, I left school in the same manner I was
bundled into it and now a future of unemployment, being in debt for the rest of your life and the age-old trial of keeping
up with the Joneses holds no passion for yours-truly. Certainly not like the fever I have for her.
My Ma will worry of course. I guess there'll be nights when she'll finish mopping the assembly-room floor at the school
for kids with special-needs and ignoring the stench of hot bleach, she'll look out of the window.
The bright fluorescent lights will hinder her study -of course, and all she'll see is her doleful reflection staring back.
But her class-bridled mind will ask the question she asks every night... 'where did my son go?', when her appeal should
really be where did she go.
Not long now, the darker in the dark near her favourite tree. A union that shouldn't be, but a love that defies nature itself.
My Pa won't miss me, if I'm not at the bottom of a bottle. His concern will only floret when he's too-drunk to walk home
and needs his work-shy runt-of-a-kid to support him home. He won't miss me.
There are movies where fathers and sons toss a baseball to each other or pass a mutual smile between each other as
they finish building a fence on a hot afternoon.
Yeah Hollywood. They ask you to leave the veil of reality on the counter where your ticket awaits.
But those cigar-smoking rich fellas never talk about that when the credits roll and the crumbs of popcorn are wiped from
your duffel-coat, you have to pick up that damned burden and step back onto the path of banality.
They say this land is too small to hold such creatures, the boffins in their white coats and stupid spectacles. They were
the weak ones I hated at school and the ones I envied when the teaching stopped. But who's the smart one now?
Not enough food, no physical evidence and mere wishful-thinking of the internet, who's the smart one now?
I have a sister, and even though she attends the place where my Ma washes the floor every weekday evening, she's
special beyond her needs. If there's a regret to what I'm leaving tonight, it's her... the only one who can still hold the
magic.
...................................................................
There she is, all hair and nervous muscle. I will not sully what my heart feels by describing the forest-queen that will
take me to her world of herb-aroma and night-silence. She is woman, although not my species. She wants me and
I need her.
A passing car throws a fleeting curtain of light across our leaf-littered rendezvous and for a moment I glimpse her
heavy breasts and agitated gaze, she wants to be away and ideally, with her man. Arms of hard sinew sway back
and forth in her skittishness and hands of leather clench their chagrin for the delay.
Praying for no twig-snap or the snag of a bramble, I step forward and with air trapped in my lungs I stride towards my
future. The promise of sanguine survival awaits and a chance to know how this world really turns.
No more frowns from parents and no more mocking-eyes from those beyond the wood.
If those clever-ones at school could see me now.
Her presence is commanding, a brute to some and a ghost to others. Her scent whispers of wild roaming and slumber
in undergrowth. Unkempt hair hides her sex and denies the weather, she represents the truth that cinema moguls can
never capture. I stand in her company and breathe in her savage majesty.
Then with an outstretched arm, I'm taken. Like bromidic academia tells us, neanderthal wedlock involved the physical
accruing and turning towards the shadows, I'm thrown over her shoulder and our honeymoon begins.
Like a ribbon from my sister's hair, that veil of reality is discarded to the night-wind.
That world that demands procedure, that snarls conventionality as a pressing imperative for humans, is now behind
me and twisting my head, I see it fade as the streetlights disappear.
Through ploughed fields and under a crescent moon we travel. Hedgerows and barren copses, forgotten places and
obscure knolls, the terrain of my beloved carriage. An owl hoots at our passing and somewhere in the ferns and bracken,
a mouse thinks to itself -that at least for one night, it's not the design of the night-killer.
My fingers touch the pumping tendons of her great back beneath her hirsute pelt and I believe her pace is quickening.
A clan or a solitary grotto awaits...? I care not for such human concerns of prospectiveness. It is meaningless when
you take the contract to live in the real.
Then my ruminations stop. That world of pungent wild herbs and Autumn-morning foraging, that Arcadia of breathing
the Summer evenings and admiring the textures of a dwindling wild, my fingers find a reality I had never foreseen.
A zipper.
Edith Head Gives Good Wardrobe.
