Sunday, 28 March 2010

Mother suites

Mother suites


As the chemical bonds of her body succumbed to the inevitable force of heat, so did the chemically induced identification with her vehicle start to break down. Just like a dissolving chemical sequence, her self awareness rapidly broke down to simpler, smaller parts - each bit occupying less and less physical space and lasting increasingly minute amounts of time. As each level of her consciousness shut down one by one, she took one more step down that ever winding staircase, forever nearing zero and the impending singular instant in time before that. There was no moment of clarity or enlightenment, the irreversible sequence unfolded so quickly that she had lost herself before she even tried to catch up with herself. Like a trapdoor the outer layer of her subconscious opened up, and she was sucked into the insides of its darkness, cut mid way through the formulation of what would have been her very last chemically engineered thought.

She was now nothing more than a fleeting impression stuck in a tenuous present; a short-lived post-cognitive afterimage of her fading subconscious. She had become a ghost: a congregation of the residual neural processes within her brain, mindlessly perpetuating any persisting imprints within the last remaining functional nerves. The electrical signals having no feedback to reflect on and no synapses to terminate to, would release the last bits of information within their potentials and would whither and die. As the organic crust of proteins, fats and cellular structures was ripped apart, there was a measurable change in the order of fermions and bosons that permeated her scorching carcass; yet behind the velvet veil of ups and Downs, charms and strangeness it was as if nothing had happened. The same old message passed through them, the same continuous, steady tone, and within it the faint voice of what used to be Yolanda.

Carried by the sewers of unconscious, whose intricate tunnels reach the minds of the living, her individuality drowned within the thick flowing pus of the deceased. Her image was now part of the collective jumble of humanity's darkest side, a place of disorientated dreamers and lost souls. Her weak signal would now only be picked up by the mourners' probing tears, desperately trying to hold onto her image. They would receive a noisy transmission flickering in and out of her various versions, an amalgam of her past selves, uncertain of what form to take. She would bring unworldly messages to them, or so they thought, unaware they were in fact perpetuating her dissipating image by reigniting deeply buried memories of her.

She would linger on for as long as her black-clad following needed to dutifully reconstruct a new version of reality to accommodate her absence. Piece by piece they would take her apart, using the multitude of her phases as beams, her ever-changing faces as doorways, their unchanneled love as the roof, her tomb as the foundation. She would be stripped clean of all images stored of her within the river of unconscious, except one – the image of her death. For as much as they tried, the mourners could not conceive and deconstruct it, bringing their iconoclastic ventures to a halt. The photograph of her fiery death would pass unnoticed through the filtering systems of the vast waste disposal network, to finally be excreted into the ocean of the imperceptible.


Within the impenetrable pulp of discarded images she was stuck like a fly caught in a spill of tar. Her image begun to fossilise, unable to evolve beyond its distraught constitution. She just sunk in the depths of the abyss, slowly drawn like quicksand, painfully scraping against the eroding bony limbs of images past. Yet, somewhere in the motionless silence of this cemetery of forsaken memories, there was a sign of a faint movement, a direction towards a force unknown. As Yolanda passively drew close to the source, she left behind her a trail of displaced scorching images ignited by her dim yet present fire. It was ironic, yet perhaps quite fitting, that in her quest for redemption she would become the catalyst for the absolution of images that had long given up on hope. Like a digestive enzyme she burnt right through them, releasing them from their century-old bonds that had condemned them in the depths of a motionless existence. As the catabolic reactions progressed, the dissolving images provided fuel and she gained momentum as she moved through the digestive tract she had created towards the humming source.

In the center of the abyss, a dimensionless vortex breathed in its guts the forgotten images, and breathed out blank templates that bubbled through the mucky ocean and up into an unformed atmosphere, the realm of clean slates. Sucked in one of these cosmic bubbles, she floated above the ocean and beyond the stratosphere of human perception. She travelled past the ever winding planets and exoplanets, the swirling nebulae and colliding galaxies, into the fuzzy blackness of space.

Trapped at the moment of her death with eyelids, arms and legs wide apart, she stared back at her burning self surrounded by the curved mirroring surface of the bubble. She was in a solitary prison, her only companion the imperceptible image of her flaming eyes. That is how I found her, wings on my back, during my desperate search at the boundaries of spacetime and of my own darkest thoughts. With my bare hands I tried to break through her cell and awake her from her relapsing nightmare, but the wall was impermeable. I was neither an angel, nor a saviour, my supernatural powers limited to conjuring images but not interacting with them, (I was just a passive dreamer.) I reluctantly let go of that thought and she slipped away from my fingers shrinking into the unreachable distance.


Cross legged she sits in the midst of pure white mist. Pale pearl skinned snakes hiss beside her, intertwining in sex they surround her.

She cannot see me, for her eyes are blindfolded with a cloth soaked in the river Lethe. She cannot hear me, for her ears have been closed with wax to block the mourners' call.

She doesn't move, yet her skin stirs, iridescent and transient like a chameleon, continuously shifting like the scales of a python. It simultaneously reflects and absorbs the surrounding dense white light, uncertain of what form to take plight.

The overly Sexed snakes tie her down like ropes, and in their incestuous passion they penetrate
Her. They break through every part of her crust-covered hollow body, crawling into every crevice they can find. Bursting with semen they reproduce within Her, giving birth to the embryonic parts of her newly constructed insides.

Pregnant now with a brand new self consciousness, she is released from her sensory constraints. She looks at me and smiles without recognition, she is indeed a new pure being. Unaware that dripping from her nipples is sweet honeydew remembrance, she offers me a handful. With a warm, innocent embrace she invites me on her lap, and with a tear I suck on a memory I have never forgotten.


She awoke in white linen embraced by the light. She looked around her to see familiar people surround her, she looked inside her to find the people she contained. Somewhere in there she found Yolanda, an embryo peacefully floating inside her amniotic sac. She picked up the sac and examined this fragment of herself closely. The embryo's consciousness was bubbling inside, bursting to come out; the message it carried all this time was finally ripe. She took a bite from this majestic fruit, its juices flowing into her throat, and molecule by molecule she read the code written onto its sugars.

As it unraveled like a scroll, the once dormant code of what used to be Yolanda was activated bit by bit within the infinite chain of messages that had accumulated over eons of timelessness. Her message was loud and clear, permeating the nucleus she was a part of, causing the cell it occupied to release the corresponding transmitters, finally creating a momentary thought in the mind of the super being that contained her.

The echo of her outcry finally reached me one lucid night. She was beaming as she communicated her truth to me, the revelation she was trying to share with me all along. The people around her were in celebration, a banquet being held for her incredible contribution. I tried to listen carefully but the party was too loud and her honey-covered sweet lips were too mesmerising. The message did not register and I would find myself writing a poem about a letter never received.

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