Incentered By Lorin Drexler

It began with blood layers, a virgin cry. The neon war vehicle sent trolloping through earthlike labyrinth in helmet, prophesying the wintry embryonic layer of the vessel. If one could portray caravan-adding needles to hay, one should never breach the pulpit and gallantly call to the universe.

The gesturing derby albino waves the flag in dart play, “Dig you unforgivable wretches, dig!” — green torrid gas hyperventilating the beast’s anus, and this is how procreation procures? — “Now swim, you fools!”

As each of the jelly inhabitants trudge like racing glue, unapparently in larvae state, the sheer rivet of their surviving will flushes their insipid bowels in dash to gain haste from god’s butterfly opponent. They snigger at their creator and live entire spans equivalent to human earth lives in a period of grumbling thump — the slosh of low-frequency moan. The incumbent doom crops up in jest as they nudge in race: fall in love, have babes, become friends, enemies, entreat, entrench, build monoliths, name prophetics, persecute, damnate, have gods and be gods, and ultimately, watch their god wipe snot of their distant cousin.

They once came to understand relatives of the bang …

More than a sound of ripple incandescent, sent traveling through monuments of noble merit and that forsaken. And upon forsaken — forsakable withstood — born was one, beyond the star, bled into a steaming liquefaction, versing through the atomic galaxy, invising and relentless, insatiating that which once halfling becomes full zygote.

It wasn’t riches that became of him, the straddling babe flinging tears into secular blackness. He grew up, grew strong, and grew old: fell in love, had babes, became friends, enemies, entreated, entrenched, built monoliths, named prophetics, persecuted, damnated, had gods, and been god. A sewn emblem left dangling from his rag.

Upon knowing life and being life, his destination trudged forward, returning to its original cocoon: a zippered white undone in capsulated catacomb. His hand reached for the rectangle fastener, wrenching as he dragged the thick metal incisors. And just then peering out, like the rife of countless infinites before, the old man realized he had made it to the sea. He let out a wondrous moan that even in further eye settled the mountain’s query.

Shimmering from blankets trap, his wings burst the seams — the lustrous bird stammering his chest to the sky. His heart bleeding as it once did upon previous sleeve. The old man made it to the sea. His wings spread and beams set flicker to pews of orange and violet arrays. Traveling deeper and deeper into the gust, pulled into the orphan planet, he flew. He flew into the sun.

© 2016 Lorin Drexler

Lorin Drexler is an American writer, music producer, singer, guitarist, and songwriter. Currently residing in Phoenix, Arizona, and rooted from the windy city of Chicago, he graduated Columbia College with a bachelor’s degree in creative writing. Art truly is the writing and the ritual of his practice. His work has appeared in tNY Press, LitroNY, and Vine Leaves Literary Journal. http://lorindrexler.com

Comments are closed.