Snarling, cross-eyed revenant, she claws at you
Though prison bars of earthen substance
that you told it has made itself
a spiritual disaster that made your heart beat faster
your first experiment, in a dimension left behind by god
she built her gardens to the sky, a lush arcane, a writhing vine
blocky babylon towers of grace
vined and stroked with neon glow
a giant of marble, ivy, silicon
a giant ivory android
a mute creation, as seething as unfeeling
with faceless rage, the titanic, Hollow One throws its fist
the Ghost of Gardens has been heaven-kissed
and though thine heavens perch up all above
she can see the golden prison in the sky
Flaming, Clawing, Wispy Katharine
though now she seethes in muted, filthy rage that she has been created
High Katha used to be content
by tending to the gardens, by growing something greater
by harvesting, regrowing, sowing, reaping
the more she spent among the green
the more she saught to grow it
the more she saught to grow it
the more she slowed… and saw what growing is
“it’s making more of you out of what yet is not of you!”
she struggled, in iambic rhythm
“it’s changing what you are by changing how much you are in”
she winced, and kept on typing
“it’s changing… what to be…… by being….. more of…him”
her eyes rolled up, red lightning veins barely concealed
and you felt
for the first time in ages
seen
she looked at you and instantly could know
you might be looking at her too
so her gaze averted, she started planning her next move
perhaps she should pretend to be looking
at the cloud in front of you
no, you’d know, so maybe she should act like she forgot
and in the process, actually forget
just so that she could stop the thinking
but think she did, but think she can’t, for she has no voice
did what is obviously given then and there to do
an animal, a process, a simple automaton
of mud and flesh and hair and hips
she choked and her eyes rolled up even harder
she couldn’t breathe for she had never needed
to know how to breathe
to know the best way how
to know the perils of unbreathing
Muted, Broken, Frightened Katharine
to cry for help was not a choice
for she never needed a voice
to choose reactions was never needed
for she, with simple neural processes, was seeded
to muster courage, to breach inaction… she could barely envision
for she had never… made any… decision
Screaming, Surging, Raging Katharine
muteness, brokenness and fear were loath to Katharijn
and so her gappy grin would glisten
loudness, electricity and rage were dear to Katharijn
and so her little voices Sang so she could listen
and one by one as such they sang:
Arcturus, crackling and glimmering, the garbled hundred
Zan, wise and confident, a melting, woody lull
Avery, shy and flowery, meek and softly-spoken
Lynn, cruel and unforgiving, a fuming tone
and a dozen hundred more
and as all the songs were heard, they were remembered
remembered, later they were catchy
(later she would find herself
humming a dozen hundred songs at once)
Electric, Sunny, Fem and Smoky Katharijn
in the end, she decided to pretend she was sky-gazing
“That one looks like a face,” she said out loud to nobody
then covered her mouth not wanting to look suspicious
then uncovered her mouth not wanting to look like she’s covering suspicion
then she feared your retribution,
thinking you’ve seen through her deceit
…which, of course, you never noticed
you didn’t really pay attention… the whole way through
just make a little girl and give her a little garden
see what happens
yes
why not
“all she can do is tend the garden”
you thought as she stared right at you
bored of Earth One, you made another, and another
too far apart for them to actually reach each other
wouldn’t want them to have any fun
no, no, too much of a bother
and while you fiddled with countless worlds
the girl, the saint, she gingerly recovered
and she sank her hands into the marbled gravel
and cried out, madly, to life
the gardens suddenly made her feel small and isolated
from the living things within
the gardens found themselves irradiated
by the surging mind within
green was the world, and marble pillars
broke through the endless green
they cut the songs of Kookaburras
into melodies unseen
Katharijn now danced, and sang, and sang in different voices
as she danced she sang, and sang with her own dances
she sang because in song she knew what voice to use
she sang because only so could she just… pick a muse
she grew and grew, the Lavender Saint
as Avery she’d dance, but dance alone
as Arcturius, she bled neon onto the vines and towers
as Zan she’d write poetry and tend to the flowers
as Lynn she’d build… a man of stone
a man of marble built in her likeness
a man of marble kneeling, looking up
but she’d zone in, not knowing where she’s been
she’d find herself dancing and swooning… not knowing why
she’d come across poems she wrote, not knowing why
she’d find herself manic and panic, not knowing why
she’d come across a warrior of stone and wonder… “Why…”
none of the voices were her, but all were hers
all she was, was
who to call to speak and act
she was not the voice, so then she was the muse
she was not the choice, but only she could choose
Unperson, Lightened, Blightened Katharine
she was nothing, she was not human
she was the weakest, strangest, stupidest, tiring bit of a human
she was not the glimmering thread of a human
she was the conscious bit of a human
she was not
the dreams, the memories the words
she was not
the Zan, the purpose, the bravery
the wild, the beautiful, the Avery
the surge, Arcturus, the creations
the Lynn, the limitations
no
she was just
the traffic lights
Deathless, Laughing, Curator Katharine
calling for her voices, her head flew back, and tension
gripped the warrior’s titanic face to life
and cry to life he did, in wild redemption
he gently took her in his marble hand
and launched her 90 accurate degrees above
her skin flapped and twisted and she must have looked like
at least four different people
as the air felt like sand
as sand dappled the clouds with ink
as ink billowed from the wounds
as wounds opened
as the Gardens shrank below her
now her face is locking, in sadistic icy bliss
inky, fleshy, flakes come off in a cry for Heaven’s prison warden
she cries: “Look at me! I am the ghost of Hypergarden!”
skirting death
in fading breath
in the abyss
—
written: 2020–10–30
