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Read Ebook: The Young Train Master by Stevenson Burton Egbert Goss Henry Illustrator
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Ebook has 60 lines and 2646 words, and 2 pages
"In the five and dime store where I first fell in love with unreality."
Lawrence Ferrenghetti
WINDFALL
Photos along a soft-centred wall like assorted chocolates with prized centres, tiny miniatures-- full portraits the young army major, for one, in battle fatigues come full family regalia.
Mounting the staircase shroud hand on the railing, pressuring the cherry liquid into oozing burst of memory, the nectarine orange of a summer's day. Swing & garden loom into view, the mind plays thoughtscapes, a tag ensemble, along the wall.
Old colours abound-- the antiquated dress & hairdos of grandparents that speak lavishly, into taste buds, across the fallen years. Ivy & ivory fan, kitten on a rocker, cradled baby that amounts to me, the sun coming home to roost on this plaintiff, pleading wall.
Passage of thought into this chocolate box-- the lid off stern memory prying forth a directory of mouth-watering choice, or so the advertisers' claim.
Yet do we ever thought over what we taut we are? My dad in Kenya or grandfather, about eight, from the dreamy, dark cream & nougat reaches of layered black space that speaks the aeons ago-- his manner and distance a smoky haze from the twilight "special occasion" Black Magic chocolate box.
TURNCOAT
Sitting in the spendthrift dark lilting pennies away, deciphering fate ... . The bed, a warm reach past the pillow like personal mortality in the incest breath of life.
Warm stuff of dreams-- the calender with its days mesh & march like soldiers dearly departed or the old sea-faring chest where all men are sailors past light's corner.
Sturdy trudgeons, clock bursts thru the room mindful of time and aching, decaying things.
Hallow's Eve in movements of the curtains-- a remembered Rembrandt, self-portrait of the old man standing alone in a clammy room, idling the seconds, with drab browns and grays; that sea-faring chest, again, speaking of depleted journeys.
Mystic and occult moods, worlds caught in a single glance off the wall paper standing abreast the lamp and the mirror, back from the pace of a single thought.
GANGLAND
A sailor, "tatoo you," the cigarette Players with tape-deck playing a jaundiced "Yellow Bird", Cerveza, Dos Equiis, the two horses, in red flame, across the label.
Trolling in a deep sea-trench , the dark night a religious procession, acolyte stars in hymnal to the wind.
Across the channel a Party Boat --the words almost demand capitals with actions so diminutive-- creased laughter "to go" cross the waves flicker of lights, siren call then a lemon shark strikes the bait on anchor reel, Horse-Eyed Jack perhaps borrowing the name from the Outback-- think pantomime, enter Wahoo and the aesthetic of fear crazed fish jack-knifing the boat.
Someone produces a cheese tray, warm wine the small shark caught in a role reversal lies bludgeoned under the seat, even there a halo glow surrounds the eye and cobalt snout, but it is the grin that takes the edge off antics of the Party Boat some bedraggled hundred yards away this Death's Head cocktail, "What's your poison" leer teeth like naked light bulbs against tenement stairs protean hoodlum a millenia away.
NIGHT FISHING AT ANTIBES
A beach back of bric ? brac, wine goblet of sky ... . the horizon beginning somewhere between Nod & nigh unto forever with only the sigh of a Casuarina pine or sea-grape to force a smile.
It was entering into twilight --our minds were sailing ships, mere vagaries upon the waves, mine more a clippership on the Frisco to China run.
Soir?e intim?e, ap?rtif, digestif? A bottle of rum with Eleuthera for a name --the prettiest coves have steadfast winds dark about portside.
Silvery light of stars, the stars like black hansom cabs with livried footmen before shark-toothed clouds, a shark-faced moon, the sight of a shark breaking water, lemon-white its gullet with the Big Dipper stuck in a shark tooth.
Diamondhead or Copperback? Carpetbaggers ... the moon's silver tea-set giving birth to wonderment flooding in affection a Raouel Dufy lithograph, some decrepit Neapolitan fisherman zoning his epic life to human proportions.
SABBAT
Picturesque Tituba, steeped in Obeah, in a hairball swoon leads a harangue about witches with some of Salem's more delicate women, obedient children.
In verdant outcrops of the imagination fuelled by a beldame's winter fire amid sparks that prance with devils thru tempest gloom covens are conjured so they implicate other pretties with raven hair, arm curled, in desperation, about the moon.
Peculiar cat-- straw hat, thatch and loft a drop of blood sputtering then drawn over piddling flame, the well-intentioned righteous demask the pain-fed frightened.
Gibbet, arm's length of braided rope-- gang-plank, gallow stairs that smirk off into Eternity --a lucky few strangled, the adamant burned, fickle apostates swum on a ducking stool.
Ice-fire hearths-- bonfire sheaths ravishing the strong carnival veil along pebble-strewn trail.
SHIVAREE
These kettle bells. Is it the axe-murderer, with green garbage bag in the shadows?
No. Green trees so thick their tops are folded hands or knotted knuckles to make perilous shrubbery by the garden wall.
Yet this is a state of mind and shards of multi-coloured glass dot the top of stones. Interesting. Should a sociopath put out his shingle, come calling, a much under-estimated, rude uttering would take place.
Still bees are active in the night air, not swarms, but a hum. Pleasant odours waft thru stiller air. There is no charged electricity to things, no tautness or leathery tightness to individual seconds. Still and stricken still.
Yet "what ifs" come slithering as if serpents along a pasture floor.
The diabolical. Rich desire to impregnate with evil, To embarcation upon conquests. To embolden and make one's mark, however ridiculous to the sane and balanced mind. Horrible. The dirty laundry of just one over-flowering and too abundant mind gone wrong.
One single blossom out of place and "killer". Off-kilter. Out of whack. The pickle short of a jar syndrome.
Then there's the hoots and shrill cat-calls withered by horse laughs. Guffaws with tattoos and rifle-butts. Laid back "good ole boys" type of humour going wrong soured by too many visits and skunky beers from the Orchid Lounge.
Rinky-dink, honky-tonk. Dotting the landscape with worn, thin cars, trouser legs piled up, the "f" and "s" words.
Charivari. A timely entry. A buzz set to sound, a faint blinking button with no sound. Suckers in the creek breaking water to catch flies, churning mud bottom by their too turbulent tails; a bird hitting the window only its night. The echo of moths lost to the stars with each jarring knock.
POINT SPREAD
The skull in the box is that of Cornelius A. Burleigh, the first man to be hanged in London, Ontario, August 19, 1830. The public hanging attracted an audience of over 3,000 when the village of London numbered only a few hundred. Because the rope broke, he was hanged twice! The top of the skull was taken on a world tour by Dr. O.S. Fowler, a phrenologist. This part of the skull was presented to the Harris family.
Off memory & a dare, the grave man coming to a bitter end. Burleigh, top of his skull reminiscent of a laundry cup separated from its yellowing, rightful owner. No jaws of life here-- rather vengeance beyond death, shellac & varnish twist shoved to the withering bone.
Phrenology, sinister "fin de siecle" fingering of the intellect's character through guru-dimensions of the head, .
Thimble-full thinker, sleight of hand smoke'n mirror trophy hunters boisterous crowd in a "hanging mood". Coins flip on the outcome while town drunks reel;
The village idiot getting into the "swing" of things. Point spread across the yawn of death ... brittle behaviour, the sharp edge of beetles clicking in the dark.
And I thought of institutionalized evil & rabid passion for revenge pursued beyond the final resting place-- most private skeletal remains held up as curios. Medieval burning of a heretic's bones, manure pile for those decried damned; the cross-roads drive your cart over the bones of the dead, the remembered suicide's end.
Not so strange given human nature, Lord Byron's silver drinking cup runaway Ethiopian slave or Hand of Glory, corpse-fresh from the gibbet & famed forges of France. Hair strands as in under a magnifying glass, then shards of clothing/clods of earth covering a shovel.
The autopsy-necromancy Nazi intrigue, playing polo with your opponent's skull --Carl Sagan's Broca's Brain red-bearded decapitation floating in a cloud of formaldehyde; sale of skeletons/white slavery filthy lucre all in one utilitarian lust for cadavers ... .
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