Five F's

1:53

Night envelops me like an eggshell.  I wear her cloak, pitch-black blue laden with stars.  Stars poking me through her fabric, stars telling me what to do.  Their points puncture my skin; their rays rob me of my vision, cause me to stumble backwards, forwards, tripping side to side.  The eggshell broken.  I crash into hard soil, feel my teeth break as my face hits the ground.  Le goût du sang* overpowers my tastebuds, causing me to wonder how such a metallic taste could possibly be human.  Such a cold taste; such a warm liquid.  We have to decide what in the blood we identify with: the properties of metal or the properties of heat.  Eggshells only last for so long, and soon the world will demand you to choose.

*le goût du sang – French – “the taste of blood”

Author’s Note: It’s dark outside; quite a lovely colour the sky is tonight.  Or this morning.  Anyway, just a simple free verse piece pour mon plaisir, et ton plaisir, aussi˚.  It’s experimental.  

I like using French inserts, especially when talking about blood.  “Sang” isn’t as heavy or weighty of a word as “blood”, but rather it is more of the nature of blood I wanted to portray here: slick, flowing, almost like a sly character in a spy movie, something not heavy but (thick) liquid and waiting to change.  Sometimes your own language isn’t adequate to convey what you mean; anyone else agree?

˚pour mon plaisir, et ton plaisir, aussi – French – “for my enjoyment, and your enjoyment, too”