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Writing The Hole


Mitch
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So you're searching for an angel.
Someone to make you whole.
Quit dreaming Dorthy
and the deeper you'll go.

It's the genius of the hole. Like Einstein. Like Hitler. It's the genius of the hole.

So you're searching for an angel.
Someone to make you whole.
Quit dreaming Dorthy
and the deeper you'll go.

Woke up here. My head was a veritable carcass of pain. Headaches were shaking me. Smelt nothing. My eyes were closed. Didn't want to open them. Didn't want to see. I didn't want to know, but I heard the click of metal. It was a gun. Someone was holding a gun to my feeble head.

So you're searching for an angel.
Someone to make you whole.
Quit dreaming Dorthy
and the deeper you'll go.

They were speaking to me. Their voice was loud and booming. It graced my head, racked it, screaming to me. Telling me to open my eyes. To see. To keep breathing. To keep along. I didn't want to--I didn't want to open my eyes--I didn't want to see--I didn't want to be--I didn't want to know--I didn't want to see--but I was forced, the gun was to my head. Slow, very slow, I opened my eyes.

Tap two feet together
the slippers will take you home.

Tap two feet together
the slippers will take you home.

My eyes opened, and I saw for the first time. There was a gun to my head, and it was held by a fallen angel--his wings were scabbed--his eyes were cold calculating death--his hands were sternly demented--and in his hand there stood his one affluence to me--his one power to me. That binary choice--that two-decision road that whispers to you with its lips red. Life or death was shot in front of me. But I had no choice in the matter. Only this angel did. Only this angel. A fallen one--with scabbed wings, his cold calculating death. Only this fallen angel. Nothing more.

Nothing more
Nothing more
Angel angel angel
At my door
Knock--knock--knocking
As before.

Nothing more.

I asked the divine being what he was--why he was--why I was. He didn't understand me. All he did was shake his grim head, his scabbed wings shaking with him, his eyes just as cold as before. And he moved his mouth open slowly--clunking--like rust to steel. And like rust to steel he articulated one word, just as if it were draining him to say it. "Life," he said, slow, loose, yet firm, heard. Life. That was all. It was cold to my naked form, very cold. The word then meant nothing to me--I was feeble, I was just a baby. But he said it as if it was final. As if it was everything--nothing.

Gather ye rosebuds while ye may
The yellow brick road--the yellow way

Gather ye rosebuds while ye may.

The angel with scabbed wings then slighted his hands to and fro, giving me presence to look around my surroundings. Most was dark about me--very dark. But I could see I was in a hole. I walked over and felt the hole's side. It felt soft. Warming. It was skin--it was flesh. Ripe flesh. I looked up, and what graced my eyes was most hoping. Up above the hole I could see light--a warming light as warm as the flesh I had touched with my hand. And as I stared and I looked, far away I could see a cross fashioned--but I could only see a side of it, and nothing more. From this cross I saw a dangling arm--a prostrate arm which was bruised, as if beaten. And blood trickled from this bruised hand. It fell from above to the deep hole--and the blood seemed so far away.

Blood is red ripe dead
Blood trickle cadence speak it say
Blood is red ripe dead

Blood trickle cadence speak it say
Loud and most atrocious most named
Hear it hear it and gray.

Hear it hear it and gray.

The hole was so deep that the blood never fell straight down. Its fall ended it on the sides of the hole--on the flesh--the ripe, alive flesh. And it would trickle down all the same--on the sides--and at times it would dry, and it would stain--but other times it would make its way all the way down. And it would there dry. Like a sad tear that has been allowed to touch the ground, it was much like. And that angel with scabbed wings would eye the blood in a most sad way--as if it were his own blood there falling. It seemed to move him--make him almost cry. But he seemed to withhold in my presence--he seemed to not want to let me see he was crying. I wondered why he would cry over something like that--especially in my then feeble mind--I wondered, much like a jack-in-the-box comes out of its box, loud exclamation, but calculating all the same--just like this angel's cold calculating death.

Why wonder when wonder wings
the scabbed answerer--mercury's bring
Why wonder when wonder wings

It is better off not knowing.

The hole was slowly being filled with the blood from above. It was a maddening process. The angel with scabbed wings kept getting more and more closer to crying his emotion as it went on. Most of the blood dried as it came--but eventually the entirety of the hole became stained, full of blood. It was around this time that the angel, his eyes pushing me over and on, got me walking with his gun still pointed at my head. I put my hand on the side of the hole again--it was now covered with blood, mostly dried. That was when the angel turned his gun away from me, and began to fire.

Fire boom bang it licks
like tongues hips
birth has come
birth has lips

birth has come
birth has lips.

He fired at a part of the hole--firing off many rounds in rapid succesion--a cold calculating process that ended as soon as it began. Out from the freshly wounded skin of the hole came blood, a sickening, smelling, grotesque blood that made a splattering noise as it came to the floor. It bled shortly--succint. And there now stood in front of me a hole that was but a little bigger than my frail baby form in comparison. It seemed I would be pushed through. I resisted at this point--but with no reason, nor no demand. Soon the gun was to my head all the same--a scary scare whose eye was black in its socket--holding within it metallic elegies for me. So I pushed onward, into the vile reaches of the hole, and I began to cry, that simple baby song always sung.

The cries the tears
baby crawling baby fears
the cries the tears

baby crawling baby fears.

The stench was horrid, overpowering, seething. It went into my weak olfactory, forcing me to adhere its vile odor. I was so overpowered by its smell. I could not see where I was going--all I could do was smell what I smelled. So I crawled on and on--crying--scared--afraid--all alone--and then in the darkness I fell. The angel caught me, his hands were especially cold, I could hear his gun clacking in his other hand. My dispositioned fear was all about me--a crawling spider spidering its webs, those thin, white, strands that weren't there as much as they were.

My eyes were closed. I did not want to see again. I did not want to know where I had fell. But I was tempted--I was augered--yet still drawn by the angel with his scabbed wings to open by his device of terror--his machine of death. I opened once again--and found myself in a little lightier abode--but still it was another hole--just as deep--just the same--save that it was a different hole--that it wasn't the same hole. I cried profusely again. I cried to the angel, but he did not harken. I cried to the inner outsides of the hole--I pleaded with its inanimate form to save me from this place--this place of endless fear--of endless distaste. And this time, I was answered. Not by a voice--but by a hand.

The hand of life the hand of grab
the thing which ceases the thing which mads
savor these moments--save them well

it is the thing which ceases the thing which mads
the thing which hoists which grabs

It was a large hand--a very graceful hand. Its finger's nails were well manicured--well kept--and I was drawn by its grace and beauty. It swept down much like a seagull will sweep down and grab its prey--much like a gull will hoisten its feet in just the right way as to grab the most slippery thing with it scales. But this was no gull; it had no intention of harm--no intention of pain--of bruising. But its intentions were to hoisten me up. Even in my feeble mind then I knew it was so--I knew that it would be.

The angel seemed afeared at the sight of the hand. It sweltered deep in the darkest part of the hole--as if not wanting to be seen. And there I was--I was hoisted up--still crying--still saddened. As I was taken up the angel with scabbed wings made his last stand--he began shooting at the hand--began trying to injure it. But it was useless--he could not aim--he was too decrepit. So from within his side he pulled from a rope--it was made from his wings--I could tell by its feathery wisps it had. Even so it was still a tool of death. He flung it at me--and it stabbed me in through where a navel is. It stabbed in lightly--and then the angel with scabbed wings pulled and pulled--but it was to no accord. I believe he meant to noose me if the chance came--but within the hand's grasp I was safe.

There I now was--and I was crying--crying not just for being taken out of the hole--but for where I was now. I lay prostrate upon a warm form--with flesh just as that of the place whence I came. The form was holding me in its arms--was groping, hugging, kissing. Then there--in the sky--on the ceiling of where I now was I could see the angel with scabbed wings again--but he was withheld in the hand that had brought me up. Still he eyed me--still he held his gun towards my head. His glare was warning, a warning that he shall always be there. There to point his gun at my head.
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[COLOR=firebrick]What/who does the Angel represent ?

Present day Mitch ? Life ? Society and its rules/regulations ?

It is truly intriguing to see your outtake on something that was beyond your grasp when it happened. Or, you did not have the ability to word it, as it played out....
[/COLOR] [color=darkblue]
You might not be able to keep the gun away from you Mitch, but at least try to steal the bullets.

- Mimmi
[/color]
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[b]Bruised Smear[/b]
Step in my nothing,
into the hole to see just how far it goes.
Deeper--deeper--deeper--dig the dirt,
thrown.

Step in my nothing,
into the hole to see just how far it goes.
Deeper--deeper--deeper dig the dirt,
thrown.

I now aged--I now ripe--I now arise
raped--raped--raped--violated, segregated, irate.
Buried--burned--buried--burned--sate.

Held a gun to my head,
held a gun
to my head.
Shoot me now--shoot me dead,
shoot me now--shoot me dead.
Let me bleed--let me bleed--let me bleed--
shoot me now--shoot me dead.

Held a gun
to my head.

Womb can you cadence,
womb can you fall,
womb can you hear me,
womb--my offal.
Womb can you bear me--
womb can you fall me--
womb can you break me.
And kill us all.
Shoot me now--shoot me dead.

Everyday of every hour--
sit in here, sit in here--sit in here
raped, beaten, sour.
Everyday of every hour--
sit in here, sit in here--sit in here
raped, beaten sour.

Everyday of every hour
I awaken to the sun.
Bruised brute, nun,
the color like skin,
the color to my eyes.

Sun rising--sun diving--sun going--draining
falling, going, gone, leaving, eating, away--
its colors like skin, bruised beaten skinned.
The sun rises--sun falls--again.

Given life--raped, fruit sour.
Given life--sexed, overpowered.
Given life--dominated, bruised scour.
Given life--a gun--cocked son--trigger lung.

Sun rising--sun diving--sun going--draining
falling, going, gone, leaving, eating, away--
its colors like skin, bruised beaten skinned.
The sun rises--sun falls--again.

Given life--a gun cocked son--trigger lung.
Breathing fumes, breathing huss.
Breathing--lungs bust.

Pull the trigger, Nancy,
Pull the trigger, Bob,
Pull the trigger, Steve,
Pull the trigger, suffer me.
Pull the trigger, can't see.

Sun rising--sun going
falling, bleeding, bruised skin.
Cracked ribs.
Eating kids.
Jaws of hell.
Sin.
Cracked ribs.
Eating kids.
Jaws of hell.
Sin.

The gun--the metal--the clink.
Life cadenced, life congested, life sinks.
Little ship on little shore--glad-hand whore.
Kiss me some more.

Life is a gun--held to my head--held to me till dead--
can't pull the trigger--suffer instead.
Sun rises--falls--and I'm still here--
bruised smear.

Still here--
bruised smear.
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