Gladiator

 

Didn’t feel how volcanic element began to pour him on.

Its devastating passion licked the skin of barefooted legs, like poison soaked through veins and undisturbed, rushed off with his blood pulse. Uphill. And more. To the very end. The fire-dancing emotion evoked with entire pain of his essence. All muscles convulsively tightened up, but were caught up in their own trap.

IT silently ran over remains of  calmness, concealed in solar plexus, transforming it in fire globe, which exploded through sparkling rays and destroyed his steel nature with its blast. The iron started to shed because of  feebleness and melt in arms of bright heat, while ruthless element embraced his heart in dead lock. Torn him up to the last capillary. The burning fire swept away the frail flower stem, dig its roots into deepest place. It wrinkled in death dance, but didn’t seal eyes and upbraiding gaze would follow him till he  breaths. And

at the last gasp tenaciously and secretly pressed its hollow to protect the grain of happiness as long as the element was giving itself a furious pleasure from destruction.

And proud of this achievement set out headfirst for the last citadel. He closed the eyes because of a piercing pain, squeezed in vice his thoughts and consciousness. So they gave up. Subservient to manacles, enchained the beauty in himself, desperately observed  the vortex of devils, awaited for their star moment. Mercilessly suppressed, rudely earthed up and brutally buried, the cursed  worms of sins, doubt, mistrust, hits, insults, misery, silt, lusts, punishments, darkness, accusations, selfishness, revenges, wounds, unhappiness, precipices, malice, another’s  betrayals, own faults, unforgivable blames crowled out meanly like spectators at the arena stage. Damned gladiator would receive what he deserved. His ruin haunted in space and they foretasted with all their senses. And in typically subversive stile would crumple him, but not until he levels down and crashes, exhausted from his own weakness. And unbelief.

Without reaching out his hand to nobody. Alone. Always on his own. A matter of a choice.

The mourning gushed out like marsh gas from his bosom. Began to suffocate him till approaches demand. Admission. In front of himself. Not only , but aloud. His fears comfortably snapped up, taken down the forced silence bandage.

Outstripping, outpacing, beating in between which one more uproariously will deafen him. His hands instinctively pressed round this source of torment. Wanted to smash it, but voices didn’t stop, searching retribution. Wave burst like geyser, swallowed up easily all obstacles, swept away everything inside and spilled as lava outside. And searched for more victims he couldn’t chase away on time and who dared to stay on. Released from relentless prison, all demons flied off in freedom. They weaved into his hair, dig claws into his warm neck, creep into his palms and converted them into cold stones of convulsed fists. Delighted in gushed out blood they rushed into his tenacious heart for relics of a pulse. Satisfied with founded emptiness, chucked up the blank space  and reaching the heat of his lips, began to dance upon their sensuality.

Kisses transmuted into action of trial.

Fragrance of his hot breath froze like ice-bound river, which broke up under his rage to leavings of pride.

Magic embrace couldn’t hold anybody in arms and purposefully, self-accusingly, roughly, brutally and mercilessly directed the power of its passion to his self - destruction.

Thoughts burst one by one, causing  craters of defeats without treatment and wheezes of these caverns began to suffocate him.

Heart started to beat for a second just to be detonated again and again.

Soul was crucified and each fibre burst out crying from a desired and almost dreamed lonely death.

Grew dump.

Deafened.

For everything.

And everybody.

The silence pierced Nothing.

Devils had no more worthy opponent and predatory stared each other.

Their unsatiable gluttony brought them to lethal end. At least temporary one. Bad news for bad guys. The mutual destruction like cancer sucked out his last strengths. Survivals dragged down deeply in his spirit so to preserve its infectious cells to next devastating pestilence with unforeseen consequences.

If he gets off this one safe.

 

***

 

...Blinded by suffering eyes slowly opened up. The mindless gaze indifferently ran through the grey ash-heap remained from himself. Tired, he raked over this mound in times gone was beating and breathing with all its love and passion. Fingers involuntarily exhumed relics of charred stem. Its cupped hand was still holding tightly the corn. Carefully he opened it up and touched the brittle, fallen in coma smile. Gently put it in dried up wilderness and irreligiously turned his dark iris to the sky. A speechless supplication echoed in clouds, enveloped himself and dashed into their lucent walls. The strength of his own missing remission and silent ruthlessness shook up their tender essence, resounded  and embraced their thirstily expectance and broke them to billion pieces of love.

Began to rain...

 

 

---

Iris

 

Farcical kind of astranger was staring out of the mirror. Shadows remained untouched, as if rooted in his iron face, definitely not healed by sleeping. Just in a way to incandesce enough strong and spectacular hue, inherent to each his action. Fingers carelessly brushed against it, tarnished from fatigue and admonishing reminding about inadvertence towards himself.

The sparklets rushed out of darkness, burst into flames and forced his own citadel.

I wonder weather he has the slightest idea how many shades they reveal, when disobediently emerge from depths? And for sure in the most inappropriate moment. Other point is when it has been fitting one at all. Mortally detested them! And of course, behind the scenes adored them, because they incarnated his essence to the bitter end.

And this very one didn’t sustain its bearer to win since the layered,varnished mask of  his unprecedented civility strips off up to bone and the wild nature of barbarian sweeps away the reeking tripe around him. In seconds of self-delusion slightly smiled how far irreproachably succeeds in mastering his furious passions.

Bated in silence its breath in moment of weakness - too heretical thought as it refers to himself, but still rather away from Odin’s achievements.

Tenaciously clenched its teeth and survived even he was suffocating it well-nigh with hatred - in a way of enough self-destruction so not destroy others through himself.

And now almost laughed because of his surprise, as they appeared. Should got used, but the last one would never become. The cattishness of self-assessment doesn’t condone only it’s with severely preserved area of admittance. As well as the self-defence’ flawless - usually that’s the way, when you are clear to pain about the bitter savour of fallen bars. The lips pursed in mute answer to all this madness, which was pouring on himself in such instants.

Invisible scars cut through his grey tissue. Downcasted in weightlessness, forgot about the world and the oftentimes crushed Alzheimer’s reelunceremoniously took its rare chance and whirled his senses.

 

***

 

The Triumphal arch.

Grotesque in its postures vanity fair. The marsh smell of rudimentary passions. The lucent arrogant wishes. The silts of the Last Supper. Time and again bitten palm, artlessly handing overmorsel of bread, didn’t learn anyhow to wisdom. Skeleton 509 is lofty just in theory. All bespattered dreams. The cleaning’s price. The desecrate testaments. The consecutive nail, knocked in the wrists. The thorny crown. And Olympus. And its intrinsic stones, of course.Generally its enough windy and solitary place, but try to convinceof this truth scrambled for the ridge worms. Condors hardly comprehend their mentality, as well as vice versa. The covetous eye of the abyss. The slipping fingers out of the edge. The refuge. The wet shore’s earth, mercifully absorbing the whole piled up sediment. Each altar needs its oblation.

And the Taming.

His religion. Discerned in desperate perspicacity the baobabs and uprooted them at the very moment of their appearance. Exactly, the lid has never been forgotten, because of one and only simple reason - the last one could solely kill him as a result. A weapon, which sword of Damocles was his karma. Didn’t want more flowers! What if he was someone’s flower? The idea heretically rankled him from time to time, and finally rejected with bitterness. Thereby didn’t approach any clear answer which one will weigh more heavy upon himself, yet every strength has its boundary values. Even his private ones.

And Zaratustra.

His own totems and taboos. His own Celestine Prophecies. His own candours and conceptions. His own inner stake. His own furies and fiends. Unostentatious, usually concealed for any length of time. And set against all existed tenets. Well, his problem you’ll say, isn’t it? Or trammels’ one? Merely their cross-point or consequences to be more precise, somehow in a queer manner reminded of that peculiar pin in duralex’ body. Hiroshima. After it try uselessly to create healing origami.

And... The Gift of the Magi.

Unavoidably born by his essence. The watch-chain, closely guarded in the suitcase, mockingly hinted about his unfitness to the genuine world, and the combs cutthroatly  convicted him on love. His black sense-kerchief. His very crucifix.

 

***

 

The naked black and white reel’s glimmers was still resounding in the few chink left empty  in his consciousness, when the Thought draconic deprived their right of subsistence by a sudden. Just like this, without asking. In fact She paid them attention on rare occasions. Got important commitments. And enough heavy traffic. And Pyrrhic battleness.

This field of action was too much occupied by rivals indeed, who didn’t succumb to Her power, that’s why She was roaming enemy’s paths. To taste and crush him by his own weapons. A brilliant kind of strategy against the most execrable adversary - that stupid feeling, which sometimes insolently pretended to be heard. Yet was didn’t satisfied only by attempts, but through improper ways tried to deafen Her iron common sense. Disgustingly indecorous just because of probity. How the hell to fight against it, then? Didn’t need any battle as a matter of fact. She knew. She always knew.

What if always be cleared about whatever?

An awaited and accepted loss in the victory.

And preliminary poisoned victory in the loss.

That’s all fine, yet the blind, unceremonious self-assurance doesn’t forgive anybody. Even the carefully guarded, protected and encouraged in its sober-minding rationality.

The feeling just left Herself to hang on Her steel illusiveness. And while She conceitedly examined Herself from top to toe and smoothed over the sleek plumage of Her own perfection, missed its invisible soaring.

It pierced his lung’s alveoli, causing slight stinging, broke a veinon its way, till predatory studied his blood and rushed out through a chest’s filament, which  outrageously bristled up because of the unexpected assault - a kind of an inner one. And without any claims, flourish of trumpets and applause seized  and conquered his essence.

Because this was his manhood bosom.

 

***

 

Resemblance of a smile arose as long as his hand reached out for the shower, and all reflections vanished towards tomorrow’s flight. Up to here with his private unit timelessness and unplanned sip of ozone.

It’s time for show.

 

---

 

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