a high-lowball inhalation consumed by fire
whiskey or burbon, perhaps the consummate slow swirl
gin, juniper blue of flesh, as the bones rattle dance
within the conclave, eager for the expected exception
but paying praying at all altars encapsulates the shrine
it ceases to be anything other than sloppy lipped alter-aberration
the laws of ego ink decree it
corpses lie, in slow sweat satisfaction, after-burning a smoke halo
amber for the lifting, the mirth of le chœur magique
deaf before life in a small death
if luck is a Lady, petitioning herself resurrection
Magaly asks us to consider 13, to weave a spell, a tale - using between 3 and 13 non-consecutive words chosen from a quote she offers, and to use metaphor in the spell.
Be bound in the unbinding I say.
“People disappear when they die. Their voice, their laughter, the warmth of their breath. Their flesh. Eventually their bones. All living memory of them ceases. This is both dreadful and natural. Yet for some there is an exception to this annihilation. For in the books they write they continue to exist. We can rediscover them. Their humor, their tone of voice, their moods. Through the written word they can anger you or make you happy. They can comfort you. They can perplex you. They can alter you. All this, even though they are dead. Like flies in amber, like corpses frozen in the ice, that which according to the laws of nature should pass away is, by the miracle of ink on paper, preserved. It is a kind of magic.” Diane Setterfield "The Thirteenth Tale"