Wednesday, 23 February 2011

NARRATIVE STORIES © Karl Foster 10.8.10

Potholing is the Welsh mountains, trapped while responsible for the safety of students and colleagues.

Beneath the planet. Impregnable impressions guiding me nowhere. Air damp, fetid, stench of fear echoes on the bruised, grazed and grave. Constricted compressed caught off balance. The gloom with little room, doubts well up.

Experience, expertise and endurance can save secure secrets. Symptoms of despair. A score of souls reliant on your actions. The mind a most delicate organ – processing limitless events supporting survival.

Green path follow the green path that’s right. Tremendous pressures folding and folded over. Surrounded by a jagged smiling death.

Debts to all and all claiming, crawl, bite twist, jam, crush and tear.

Drowning and forgotten. Will Gaia give up her lost.

Upwards ascending ascensions associated with salvation. Flames flicker. Drafts extract oxygen from the nostrils.

Kissed by the breath of troglodytes. Left right and right upward. Slipping digits into tresses of a Venus.

Relieved not to re live the fate of Orpheus. Ears popping as champagne corks. Squatting beneath an iron ledge, cramps, straining can you hear a rescue party.


No comments:

Post a Comment