Moaning in the bullet-riddled square; clenching a handkerchef in my jaws. The square fades in and then back out as if blindness eclipse my eyes but it isn't that either. The red pool is still too vivid. Red, red, red like flags waving in the Revolution.
I see shoes scattered throughout the street and their owners have no time left to care. Too many fairy tale characters strewn about - one shoe on and one shoe off. Eyes open; playing dead, secretly stashing their souls away behind their eyelids for protection from mites. Irenic.
The temerity of those bullets striking meat! The thump-thump sound! The gasp! The fall! The dark red crude. The taste of cherries in your mouth. The flies congregating near entry wounds. I am dying at last but not until I've finished bleeding. Not until the light in my eyes become dull. Not until the tears on my cheeks dry. I will take my time.
I hear moaning in Tiananmen Square. Moaning in Baghdad. Moaning in Boston. Moaning in New Delhi. Moaning, longing, seething, dying, crying, fucking in the world's affairs. The Atlantic Ocean is pistol blood red. The sunset is Christ blood red. We paint the skies and waters with our struggles. We paint with our essence as cavemen painted cave ceilings with spit and coal. We paint the eyes of albinos. The leaves of lettuce. The backs of fish. The hide of deer. We paint the world with suffering. We paint everything with the blood of our children. We are Mars's fury.
We are the red disciples who come two and two into Noah's boat. The Noah - he the Charon of the living world crossing over the patrimonial bloody river. The boundless terrirtory of red waters boiling at the Earth's crust. No one to claim the wealth of white essence. No wine to supplement the suffering. Disease infests the manifest.
My blood is no longer mine. It belongs to the sewer and the mud. I clear out. The scene is severed and my transition...