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Ruby Fragments—I

Ocular Metonymy

By Keenan ChiassonPublished 7 years ago 4 min read
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Ruby Fragments - I - Ocular Metonymy

Immutable combustion deafens the Hollywood man with a severe stiffness that falls into an incessant drone soon captured, trapped, beneath his salt-soaked eyelids. Ruby-stained thumb and forefinger grip the denticulated circumference of Hollywood's chosen optical weapon.

Reflected in his eye's kind iris; a catastrophic explosion of a thousand fly-like shards of shimmering iridescence emanates as smoky rocket trails bursting, starlike, from the Jacobean ruff of a jewel-encrusted fool stood upon swift descent of an ornate black-and-gold raked stage-in-the-thrust, bursting with the confidence of nematocysts.

Hollywood's rosy wrists and soaked shirt of the same chromatic nature writhe around the device; a perfect cinematographic tango toward filmic totality.

Omni-coloured fragments, contained within chains of lightning-tight explosive fervor, lock weightless, coruscating the slow rotation like that of those dancing paradigms that flip-flop, ever-vicious, in our day-in-day-out struggle to balance the opposing ideologies at either end of some first-world spectrum; their contents seemingly banal, though their form piercing the cervical pinhole of the flooding gate that subsequently gives birth to all followers through their recognition of a perception's communal worth.

Hollywood, endowed with the delicate appreciation for all things previously unseen, his aim steadily fierce and with balletic synchronicity, is gifted with the observational treat of transcending the very lens he directs. His witnessing of each projectile fragment; the diversified ordinariness and grandeur of life's large and life's petty, it whisks within him a sense of nostalgic, pell-mell ubiquity now, too, made known to the handheld glass of his electric eye.

Light slices his gaze as he feels lifted softly from the ground while having his focal precision ripped from beneath his eyeballs by a metallic, black box of golden honeycomb descending the upper ledge of a cracked wooden shelf; the shelf painted white on that soft spring afternoon that sweetly buttered the warm aluminum sheets which formed the exterior of the immobile mobile home where his late father was conceived. A wheel of cheese rolls down a grassy knoll. A child escapes his home only to find himself standing alone; an adult unperturbed. A woman is trapped viewing herself within a monitor behind two windows and the murky rear-view of a city's cell-like yellow taxicab. A river carves veins into the un-fucked region of wherever the NWO has yet to go.

Hollywood is washed with an unmistakable sense of warm felicity he need not bare his teeth to express, for smiling, when alone, felt silly to him.

He opens his eyes to realize he had closed them for a second, or two, and realizes the hole, messily punctured in his rose-red side, doesn’t really much help in the way of possibly seeing another fleeting portrait of the endlessly stretched horizon, that deep post-coital feeling of violet, liquid gold as its few lasting sunbeams horizontally fade from the conscious mind. Despite the smoky impression of a thousand metallic dusts and shards seeming to sort of ridicule and ultimately judge him, Hollywood takes this with a grain of salt, shrugging it off with that sort of relaxed mellowness which affords secure people the responsible elasticity to attribute almost any perceived negative perception of themselves to the foggy construct of their own looking-glass self which is moreover skewed with endless distortions unique to every individual’s life leading up.

The droning buzz that fell deep within his throat (which had been forgotten about up until this very moment) breaks into itself, as the faint popping of growing sizzles form a distant, shattered cacophony of exploding terra-cotta, pyrex, brass, and aluminium heard through egg-carton-mesh mattress foam.

His nostrils sting with the pronging sensation of carbon that reaches all the way to the back of where his brain slumps inside his skull.

He tastes cinnamon.

It’s being fed to him by his beloved wife as a prank.

He looks out over his crib’s edge and wonders why the floor is breaking up, as its pieces PLOP into murky, black, refractive-light-dazzled water, the fragments of it becoming his nervousness the first time he asked a girl to be his girlfriend, and she said it would be the Lord Jesus Christ which came to save him, but now only behind his eyes could he see the look of that woman trapped between the mirrors actually being the one he stupidly ran away from, not his wife, but she, herself, who retrieved the honeycomb from the upper shelf and fell in love with a man whose parents chased a rolling wheel of cheese down a grassy knoll while it’s vivid impression made him blink,

and try and refocus,

and re-rack focus

by twisting the focus barrel

to re-focus on his capture,

this thespian beauty of an ever-expanding, ever-accelerating nebula charging in war-like waves from the neck of an opulent fool.

His eyes blur and struggle to remain free of that warm voice dragging his body colder by way of reminiscing the museum he once visited which really changed his mind about this whole "art" thing.

His focus locks on reality.

Those beautifully twisting shards,

drunk with luminescence,

begin to shrink and dazzle,

lose colour,

and rapidly flash into a violent wave of paparazzi.

It fizzes

and dies

a pulsating death

no more glorious

than the cast-off ember

of a cigarette. He desperately clutches

for the loose

and reachable threads

of his dream and art

as they are

pulled off, leaving him

nothing

but

twine,

a shattered daze of brilliance

all used up

in the milky haze

of witnessing red,

white,

and blue

fireworks fade from the sky;

caught

through

his

blindfold

as

he

s ',

' , i

. ' n

, k

s,

.

w,

'e.

' . i

, g '

h .

' t

.e

d,

',

t.o..t.h.e..b.o.t.t.o.m..o.f..a..m.u.d.d.y..o.c.e.a.n....s.o.g.g.y..&..r.e.p.u.l.s.i.v.e

-To be continued-

surreal poetry
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About the Creator

Keenan Chiasson

"I want to burn with the spirit of the times. I want all servants of the stage to recogni[z]e their lofty destiny."

-Vsevolod Meyerhold

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