Wednesday, 20 August 2008

Things The Revelator Did #3567

The moments tween waking and sleeping the Revelator pulls about his waist as he nears, and with all the static of the pre-dawn skyway hissin’ tween the cracks in his teeth.

Strange scenes sparkin’ in his pores, shootin’ up and off his body in arcs o’ black-light blazing - debris strewn about a hospital corridor, split strip-lights and discarded pills and the pages of old bibles and hymn-books… Job kneading the boils beneath his eyes with fingers all blackened and bent and broken… the message a friend o’ mine left for me at the bottom o’ thon stairway, the words all threaded mongst the pool o’ blood an' bile formed a halo ‘bout his head o’er pish-damp floorboards…

Settlin’ next me on the mattress, and the words droppin’ off his tongue like poisoned wasps, the Revelator says ‘There is somethin’ wrong with you’, and I’m noddin’, pattin’ at the cheek with the back of a hand. ‘There is somethin’ wrong with you.’

Through the gap in the curtains the first whispers of sunlight come wheezin’ in o’er the sill, glistenin’ some on the black o’ the rosary beads lain on the dresser there next the ashtray. ‘Fix me…’ I’m sayin’, and the winds atween my faces ragin’ and roarin’ and batt’rin incessant. ‘Please, mean. If you can…’

His eyes fallin’ on the curve o’ my neck like cinders, fixin’ on the bank of colour all sparkin’ about the bone - the memory o’ the kiss she gave me couple mornin’s past… a kiss, aye, and her fingers all threaded ‘tween mine an’ her smile all swellin’ in my chest…

‘I love her’ I’m tellin’ him. ‘Jesus knows I love her wi’ all that I am an’ all that I was an’ all that I might be in time, an’ all that’s mine, all of it, I want her to have. But what’s wrong wi’ me, sir, is part o’ me, and I don’t want her to have that for a second. Or, I mean… s’just…’ The words catchin’ in my throat, the ‘lectric lashin’ at the base o’ my spine, and the Revelator suckin’ on the bottom lip, thumb and forefinger pullin’ at the left earlobe. ‘Not for a second, sir…’

With a hand on my forehead he bids me lay back gainst the pillow. The edge o’ his blade all glistenin’ in the swiftly-swellin’ light, he says ‘We’ll cut it out you’.

His fingers all pawin’ at my thigh, thon article all prickin’ at my rib, and the Revelator sayin’ ‘We’ll cut it out so we will, that Wrong that’s in you there.’

‘Thank you…’ sayin’, and her hand in mine, and her voice sayin’ ‘S’alright, s’alright…’