[The Purple Scarf] a short story

Nothing becomes unless it holds in underlining substance, marvel. A story that holds no moral, a novel with no plot; all predicates itself, its being and becoming on the subsidy of exhumation.

This occurs to me after I encounter by incidence a woman who comes simply to gratify her hunger. I dream then, dream instantly, fall back onto a solid cloud and take form of it.

-but even in this enchanted age, when we know the cruelties of love, it is sought as the darkness that conceals a hideous imp awaiting pounce. The temporary derangement of deep abysmal burrowing, I take to, without a moment's doubt, the bottom holds a thousand pears of anguish..

Her name was Alexie.
She has an inherent tan to her skin, a texture of exotic tint, her eyes were that of the most feminine feline, dark and haunting, piercing even, as though they could know sadness and glee interchangeable in one bat of the eye to the next. Her smile one must admit is a disarming one, becalming even the most raging sea. I could not recollect nor reckon in that moment, as I could not remember anything, as to when the last time a smile possessed me into reverie.

Who was this quintessential being of feminine being? Where had she derived and who was the man calm at rest every night who held her tightly?

She became the muse to a day that was museless, scarce and snowy and this man who spoke for her had suddenly become my arch nemesis who I'd gladly skin alive to be in his place next to her.

This is the subversive action, the opiate inhalation, laudanum ingestion, irrational deafness upon deft monotones, the laudatory monograph features upon the tongue ring for oral stimulus. The turn and smile as she walks away says that she too has taken on the rhythm of mystery, of curious arousal. The trial and error of which I desire to embark is the same odyssey undertaken by Miller and Nin, by Abelard and Heloise, a pretentious coitus interruptus upon the curvature of her spine.

Let it be known that this world is the womb and I, a fetus that must grow and develop gradually, consistently, else be engirdled in calcification as the lithopedian. Gladly I will surrender my growth in the Euclidean for the growth upon her flesh. Let it be known that I will rise upon her as the braille that will rise when first my fingertips sweeps against her skin as the sprinkle to the rising tide. Let it be known that I am another phalanges upon her, a parasitic twin with whom nourishes from the arteries, the veins, the capillaries, the sinuses of what she is to the dream. And of this dream, the nonparallel, asymmetric, askew, malformed, abstruse and obtuse meridian, she flutters with the black canaries into a desolate, glowing winter night where the trees lean wearily in their decrepit condemnation, their branches chafing broken sonnets, fallen hymns from bygone song. Therein obsession is a delirium of transitory genius, a beggar quoted by no one upon the abandoned and poverty-stricken earth. Let this dream relapse, reenact itself in a broken language, a cipher, trick of mind and light, a polyp in the fascia only removed upon the full step from this life. Let translation between she and I coexist with a vast electricity, until such times the lights burn bright, then out and all that is left is the synthesis of our naked body.

Dontrell Lovet't