De La Flare

Local Ghost

[robotcosmonaut]

Circles, 1933

[dreamstars]

[the-phantoms-m]

高島野十郎「蝋燭」 Takashima Yajuro “Candle"

[dreamstars]

[toky09]

[liquid-clorox]

[havoc-93]

[ishowdespair-deactivated2026012]

[adamdelaflare]

The King Of Cups

The card is in reverse.

There is reverie in the sound it makes as it touches the felt.

Resounding truth that turns my equilibrium with two right hands and three left feet.

Its more than impassioned smallness, its a reminder that pangs against tin houses and washes away clay doorways.

Its the rain, it pours down from the single cup into oceans of high tides.

I'm swept thoroughly, pulled under into barrel rolls, rip tides shore me asunder.

I'm turned into a raw pittance.

Skin barely holding together, strung up towards the last mast, my veins become the ropes that tie everything together.

My nervous system sinks to the boughs of this vessel and is entwined with barnacles from journeys past.

Big toes tied to anchors, casted in iron and initials written of my own, finished in dried sputum and platelets to clot the sores.

We're taking on water, shoveling crocodile tears from a dreadnought, I once again watch us sink.

And I remember, this cup never runs over.

I pour into cups with holes at the bottom.

My hands tremble as the I watch the cup fill and exasperate as its drivel turns into a spew.

There is no gauze to close this, no suture for ceramic, no adhesive to survive this wound. I'm hung by my own tourniquet.

So I will let my heart continue to bleed into this cup, I will slather the sails of this ship in hemoglobin.

And I will pray to the furnace below.

Please relight my flame, turn my spark into lightning, adjust the voltage to above what they give the chair, and set sail for home.

[adamdelaflare]

The Sound Of Nothing

What is the sound of nothing?

Is it what I constantly hear in my head?

That feedback loop droning on and on again. A tape that won't stop playing? A vinyl that skips every half step until its measured again?

Its the ever working hands fastidiously suturing freshly salted wounds, or is the wound itself?

Did I partition enough gauze to stop the free fall?

It comes down and down and down until i'm falling up.

The sound of nothing is my mouth agape, disheveled in tone, wrapped in the notion of: "dawn won't come soon enough"

Its the tinnitus, the pin needle breeding a high vibration only dogs can hear and which make horses buck.

Its dropped into a bucket with a rusted bottom, that shouts a pang loud enough to know it fell from miles.

But why does it sound like nothing?

Because from the moment you opened that silence you curated the hum. This is the sound of a death rattle, a creature backed into its own corner. It will strangle itself on the sound.

Inside the Tympanic cavity and the Cochlea it attends this oration of tepid shadows, and for once it listens a little too close.

The sounds of footsteps without tracks, hand prints without finger prints, and breath without scent.

The sound of nothing is loss, and nothing is all I can hear.

[vexheart]

A touch

[bbrothertedd]

[archiveofaffinities]

Aleksander Rodchenko, Two Circles, 1920

[inaloversquarrel]

!

[achillesinhighheels]

Atlanta, Georgia. Photographs by Thomas Hoepker (1996)

[altivyx]

[down-the-rabbith0le]