No. 1(of 2) figueres abpresences

he woke with something    some  thing

                                 gleaming   near his eye
bits of anxious phosphorescence  white     broken

the sheen of his warm dreaming hadnt set  it was busy    still plastic

                                                              then it hardened  granular
congealing into disparate shards
and busier



            then it stilled  no
inert

it glimpsedlooked at him
                    it shivered in his compound-insecteyes

he didnt know if it was one thing or many incarnates of that thing

then fixed   assured   
                  in midair turningtumbling 
he could see its edges  serrated    broken honeycombed edges
 

they softened briefly   morphed
                           pale bonecoloured wax


and soothed it evolved
turned into reflective drops that grew heavy  gained mass  and fell like rain or blood or oil
                                                                        and falling
disturbed that which lay under it which he could not see

 

he could not lower or avert his eyes
all he could do was witness them becoming fewer and fewer in the space before him
 

a cool  bluing   molting dream

it was maddening to be unable to see how it manifested itself into or onto whatever it fell

soon
     the space before his eyes emptied
it released his head so he could look down
though before he did
                 he saw the plain eggshell-white plane of his bedroom wall rematerialise  it filling in behind where the particles the vapour had vacated

then  his eyes released  he looked down where the remnants fell
                                                     he was strangely then upright  at his feet he saw figueres sitting jocular outside a Church of Cruel Intent smoking handrolled cigarettes fingering the necks of brown and white spirits the bottles hanging mute and dumb from their filthy hands their fingernails outlined in grim and soot  unwashed

they wiped their runny noses on the bare backs of their hands

the dull afternoon sun congealed on them then fell like vapid sodden moths when they raised their hands to their faces to have a draught of liquor or a drag off their cigarettes

they thought they were thugs
                        no one could correct them of their thinking
and thinking longer and longer they were it became etched in their faces and apparent there was no way anyone could ever convince them otherwise

they were hard white shiny comets committed in a black night (romantic  --  though not that they would use the word  they didnt know it) as they imagined and saw themselves

they leaned against the sides and doors of parked cars against patched and stitched panels of sanded rustcoloured bonding

they growled and jeered at people who huddled inside buildings that surrounded them behind lighted windowpanes and pale translucent curtains
 

they owned the night

they had driven the cowardly indoors into the clutch of their sanctuaries (though they wouldnt use that word either because they didnt know it) had driven them inside to cower and hide behind ramparts behind thick walls and heavy doors because they knew they wouldnt risk the street and feared the cloak of darkness

they were Light people

shadows washed over the thugs staining  rippling them darker briefly  swift flying things that disassembled if he tried to look up at them  finding nothing except indefined smudges  if that

they didnt seem aware of the things that passed silently over their heads                                                

he realised then that he could see only those things that wanted to be seen
                                                            abpresences  who deliberated  thoughtful  without a coily mess of brains or confined or imprisoned within meaty bodies

if they didnt need them Why he ascertained would they
                                             Clever clever  soul-magpies  mages

beginning to realise his purpose was to be a watcher a slovenly voyeur Allowed to See  a Seer  his strength seeped out of his arms

they fell to his sides

his knuckles banged on his bed

but banging they found something hard under them

something that hadnt been there when he went to bed  and like magnets they drew his gaze pulled on it  as deliberate as his arms quit

under his bruised knuckles

under his eyes

he saw two handguns

an Old West revolver under his right

a Blackhawk under his left

beside each gun on the chenille bedspread lay two bullets

haphazard  he took one revolver then the other and loaded their chambers

he held them by their wood grips turned his wrists familiarised himself to their dead weight

he drew the hammer back on the Blackhawk  its click sharp

its cry warmed the thugs who turned to its sound

they saw him standing guns drawn

*   *   *

conceived 0647,  Moanday,  11  4. 16
1517,  Moanday,  18  4. 16