Dillon #2

His skin is cold to touch. Colder than The Grey. His teeth are icicles. His tongue is vanilla ice-cream. His favourite colours are white and blue but he pretends they are red and black. When kissing his lips it feels like eating snow. His breath is always foggy. His blood has frozen, so he moves with stiff legs and turns slowly. He gleams with brilliance and cleanliness. He is immaculate and pure and those of wicked and wretched sin, those like me, are hurt to look upon his white statue. The light cuts the black of our eyes like a needle.

Nothing penetrates his glacier exterior. The pools of emotions inside him are never rippled. They are steady and lonely and never overflow and they are a young blue atop and embowled by a flawless white.

He deflects weapons and blocks punches. He is a white barrier. He is physically unbreakable. He doesn’t crack. He glows – a strict, skinny, skeleton glow that radiates from his skin. He is intimate with his surroundings and can surge them with confidence to withstand the wildest of winds and strongest of storms.

When he walks through empty corridors he glides his finger along the wall emitting little flakes from the contact that melt to a tear of water before they reach the ground.

I think he lives like he’s made of glass. Perhaps porcelain. A cold porcelain vase that doesn’t home flowers and acts as just an eye pleaser, a decoration on a marble mantlepiece. And so, he feels cold and worthless and looked at but not looked in, not studied, just passed, his existence fragile and unmendable once it shatters into fragments; picked up with delicate hands and let fall again. And again. And again. 

We could combine, little Dillon. You and I, the frost and the fog could attach and produce a new world. An illusionist and a shapeshifter. Who’s who?

Galaxy Goo

I could crack you open and galaxy goo would slime through the fissures, thick and dark purple and full of little stars.

You don’t even know that.

You have no idea what’s inside of you. What you’re made of. I guess that’s because you can’t see your eyes. Unless you look through mirror. But you and I both know, mirrors only reflect colours. Cosmic magic gets lost in translation.

I have seen your eyes. The first time I met with them, my lonely mind took their picture and replayed them to me – over and over. It connected us in that infinite land of dream and magic and imagination, where we will breathe and fly and implode even after this world has let us go.

You’re heavy. You carry yourself around and you tire yourself out.

Gravity despises you. You’re too hard to hold down. Gravity told Love to break you, so you chained canon balls around your ankles and kept yourself grounded.

That was bad.

You see, dreaming is flying, flying is rising above,out of reach from Shadow, the snappy-stick wetness that moves at night. We sleep to escape it. That’s why we sleep at night.

But you don’t sleep. Do you?

No. You shiver and stare at the stars and wonder.

Oh. Galaxy Goo! That’s us up there! Far from the ground claimed by malice!

I feared for your safety.

But you were safe.

When I turned and found myself deep within Grey depth and not alone, I found you! Oh, wicked truth! Beyond imagination! You are of Grey as I am, as she is! And I pondered just HOW A being of the Grey could survive the darkness without dreaming! Without sleep!

And so I realised,

At night as we leapt to Earths beloved universe and hid in a galaxy, you turned into your galaxy. The darkness couldn’t collect you because you collected yourself.

And so, you could survive the night. And, the night became your dream. And, you lived amongst devils and demons and were immune to their wickedness.

And then came the Grey…

Discord

The man of heaven lifted his hand so delicately so; and with a force, lashed it down toward the being underneath

and the being, a boy, hurtled into a windy curse, a curse of discord, and gravity became an anchor on his ankle

never to fly; to stay away from the man of heaven for all days. But the boy being smart, learned to run instead;

and he ran over the land twice million, until he knew it better than it’s maker – the man of heaven;

and so the boy took his curse and turned it into power; as he became the man of the land, a God too.

Numbers

A kingdom awaits. A kingdom stands.

The lone renegade wanders endlessly through the empty violet streets. Traffic lights flicker, neon signs buzz, as he steps slowly, with a sad beat of his feet softly pounding the ground.

There are no remnants of other life. The road is clean and wet with a rain that has fallen long ago, but never dried.

Static screeches in his eyes. He sees another, one other, a boy. Eyes a colour he hasn’t seen for ages. The boy waits for him at the long end of the road, where it meets a dumb hillside and slants smoothly.

Dead electric blue numbers develop along the boring brown building walls, in random patterns. They are cracked and illuminate at a great speed and follow the renegade.

The beautiful renegade, a cloud ready to implode wanders on, not oblivious but accustomed to the appearing numbers. He is following the boy.

He is nearly there. There is an echoing feeling of distance reverberating off the hollowness of his kingdom.

The bad renegade needs mending.

His soft hood is not threatened by wind. Wind does not blow. He does not allow it. His complexion is complete. It does not change. His head is down. He breathes steadily. His face is but a black shadow. But until..

The boy is an intruder. He does not belong. His belief is misplaced. He deserves to be punished. He was warned. ‘Beware the broken.’

The renegade lets loose his fist. His finger tips brush the polished brick pavement of the hindmost building. He feels nothing with his dented sense. The numbers shock at the close touch, pulsating harshly, but still silent as the emptiness that they act as counterpoint to.

There they bump. The two do not touch physically but bump elements. It is a bold idea. Two kings stood in front the other. Their bodies face but their heads are stooped. Neither move.

The boy awaits. The boy’s hands are cold, his body is stiff, he smells the old petrichor. The renegade does not.

Two kings bouncing power. It’s a subtle bargain, it’s a number.

“I feel numb”, breathes the renegade. The male planets are not far from each other. The boy picks up the whisper.

The scratches on the renegades waist itch beneath his clothing. Only but for a moment.

He moves closer.

The boy then glides over to the renegade, for this is no human boy. This is a shadow of a boy with no features – only an outline, and a black cesspool of undetermined body. Burning white eyes.

They stop directly in front of one another. The boy returns. His bare feet patter to the floor. He is blood and bone again. He is grateful but ever fearful.

Now, the renegade looks at him. Those eyes… They see the boy. They allow the boy. But they hold no promise. They betray the boy. They burn the boy. They burst the boy.

The renegade’s lips preform again. In his dull, doped voice, he speaks again.

“I feel numb.

I feel numb.

I feel numb in this kingdom.

I feel numb, make me better.”

The renegade reaches out to the boys lips. He can barely feel them but there is a touch. The renegade frowns. His eyes turn red.

You better make me better.

You better make me better.

You better make me better.

You better make me better.

You better make me better.

You better make me better.”

The boy accepts the energy sizzling from the renegade, he breathes the sparkling snatches down into his lungs, and breathes them back out, turned from blue to white and the Renegade is thrown back. Mix-matched numbers flicker through his eyes, counting to infinity but in no order. They increase in speed and the boy can smell the friction of connection as the renegade faces the empty sky, his body agape. There comes a low murmur from the streets. The murmur picks up into a mumble, a mumble into a groan, a groan into a shout, a shout into a yell and a yell into a whistle and the whistle SCREAMS and the Renegade pushes his hands through his face as he vibrates relentlessly and then the renegade throws his hands down in an outright power burst, and the noise quits and numbers are sent slashing over the surface of everything as they redo and disintegrate and redintegrate.