Jocular Trash Heap Confessional.

[Music: Laura Veirs]


Better to Blossom Than to Die.

I saw it stripping bark from a large winded oak like it was the end of firewood profits through a broken down econostrike in some extroverted community like Franklin, Maine. A raisan, little over stragling-but-unkind middle child height, with a butcher knife the size and length of a compressed metropolitan demon blackblade, minus evil attributes (or so it appeared). I crept like aquadrome silence through cracked concrete, and, in turn, violated high rule of an isometrical trespass. Death could have swooped and stole a brain just then, but it did not. Random distructions were cut back due to slumps in consumer demands for suicide. About half-way through a mudslide tripzone, some tiny bright bird streamlined through the wood and disrupted the wrinkled fellow's punching and pulling. I made stealthy haste, evenly locationing commonground in the midst of a shallow battlefront. The maroon-shaded raisan suddenly disengaged like cruise missles, burrowing swiftly through layers of oppositionally closed-heated dirt and dead leaves. He opted to travel through foreign passings to my own unkown cartogrophy: the wilderportal and into a strikingly omnious bronze elevator. One that would fit perfectly next to a slot machine in a Gold Rush-themed casino. As the doors left an ajar state, my solitary steel arrow pierced the feather-carved doors. The elevator ascended, cracking trees like toothpicks as it headed for the cloudless red sky. Luck struck and my gaze twitched towards the half naked oak; the raisan's prodigious daggar sat shaking, impaled into the cold brown ground like a medieval sliver of justice.

Recalling my days within the tortured riptide, my binding chains exposed themselves and wove around the butcherknife's hilt like a python around an unsuspecting warthog. After fusing the newly chained blade to my carbonbow, a distant light brought fluidity through my frame and hoisted me up towards the ascending third placed elevator. Using the knife to brace the door open, I retracted the steel arrow and composed a melodic palm-slicing to the whistle of the breeze. The door exploded out into the distance, caught fire and crashed through a nearby glider parade. In the corner, shriveled up and gasping for air, was the mad, distopian, shit-red raisan. I certainly could not crucify it like this; a weakness I sustained far throughout the changing of the persecution seasons. It briskly stood erect, and began limping over towards me like an old man about to snatch weekly retirement pay. As it closed the gap, a large congregation of light blue seeds began to fall from the collected skyflowers atop the ascending craft. The seeds levitated around the raisan's skull, forming two sets of rings moving at an alarming pace. My mind was wandering, and drifting in and out of confusion. A technique like this I had not witnessed in all my days of gothic creature execution. Far too late for divine introspection. Seeds began bulleting into my eyes, ears, and mouth as so I could not breath. "Cry," spoke the raisan in a tone that would dislodge tears from an Asian corpse. I held it as long as possible, but the liquid emotion escaped like ghosts from a collapsing dimension. I felt the raisan's weight on my shoulders, it was shaking my head violently and attempting to cram more seeds into my eyes. Rotating, thrusting, pounding hard as ever against the metal walls of the elevator, I thought I had lost hope. But then, my steel arrow caught an updraft of air from the outside and jolted vertically through the dull noise struck deep inside the rising cube.

It split the raisan in half.

The deformed beast released my head and slipped backwards through the hole in the sky's chamber and closed its eyes as it descended. Looking down as the wrinkled fiend fell, I noticed it was attempting speech. "Better to bloom than to die," it whispered through a crass red and green backdrop, "a flower for each of your cells."

As it crashed in a bloody mess of acorns and sand, I sighed a sign of refresh.

But then my head turned into a garden.

...Blind to the world, but not to its beauty...

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Author's Note: The seeds do not represent semen. Thank you.

--

Or do they?

I should have titled this piece Hip Preist.

Oh well.