The Silence Manual - Diagram of the parts included.
By Petra Whiteley
'A bondman is always subject to a free man.'
- - The Trial, Franz Kafka
I have hunted, I have brought the hunter home with all his rabbits, stuffed deep into his many pockets. How gently he whacked those small necks with the back of the hand!
The next rabbit already twitching to be touching those hands, to be skinned human, that tingling call of grass in Eden (or something like that). Truly that twitch was for the sake of their ears, the delicate deliciously impaled soft flesh welcoming earrings - all they ever wanted is to belong, now they were chosen to feel so. Those big hands held the promise of those cruciation garden pleasures to be given so graciously, so freely, so lovingly.
I'd like to say I was never one of those rabbits...
Yet I knew the smell in his pockets, the exciting sound of the swish of the hands and the soft hairs, the skin, trembling beneath, expecting. Yes, I was mesmerised too.
Only I couldn't wait for that beautiful moment of the ultimate intoxication of life blasting my veins through and for the majestic explosion echoing and swirling the major notes, taste it on my tongue as wordless I would be blissfully left with the final swell.
Only little does one realise what obsession the escaped rabbit can be to the hunter. He's still out there searching his house, all its nooks and crannies, and throwing the chairs around, pulling out the draws, dirty cupboards with precisely placed spicy objects, cursing the absentee with all the roar he can muster. When they come knocking on the door, he carefully positions the hard pressed clothes, they are red because he's oh so passionate. Light is his way. The rabbit is propped by the wire into proportion of towering Baphomet, slowly de-rabbitised in the tradition, give it number 13, day of Friday. Soon fading into the fairy tales where everyone becomes (eventually) clearly given the right place in the alphabet.
Let the rabbits boil their silvery echoes for their wondrous huntsman so he sets back to the softly killings, his palms the gift of the moss. I shall ponder why I've brought my home into his hands to begin with. That is the guilt to carry along in the necklace of them.
I dream of Thames at midnight, where at least a rabbit can choose the softness of one's own never ever after and push hard towards the dawn in the city.
- - -
Petra Whiteley is an author of poetry books 'The Nomad's Trail' and 'The Moulding of Seers', she is writing regularly for Osprey, Eleutheria and The Glasgow Review on variety of issues and literary movements, her poetry and fiction has appeared in various online and print magazines. She's in the process of hunting down a publisher for a book that crosses several genders, dystopia and fantasy to name a few.
By Petra Whiteley
'A bondman is always subject to a free man.'
- - The Trial, Franz Kafka
I have hunted, I have brought the hunter home with all his rabbits, stuffed deep into his many pockets. How gently he whacked those small necks with the back of the hand!
The next rabbit already twitching to be touching those hands, to be skinned human, that tingling call of grass in Eden (or something like that). Truly that twitch was for the sake of their ears, the delicate deliciously impaled soft flesh welcoming earrings - all they ever wanted is to belong, now they were chosen to feel so. Those big hands held the promise of those cruciation garden pleasures to be given so graciously, so freely, so lovingly.
I'd like to say I was never one of those rabbits...
Yet I knew the smell in his pockets, the exciting sound of the swish of the hands and the soft hairs, the skin, trembling beneath, expecting. Yes, I was mesmerised too.
Only I couldn't wait for that beautiful moment of the ultimate intoxication of life blasting my veins through and for the majestic explosion echoing and swirling the major notes, taste it on my tongue as wordless I would be blissfully left with the final swell.
Only little does one realise what obsession the escaped rabbit can be to the hunter. He's still out there searching his house, all its nooks and crannies, and throwing the chairs around, pulling out the draws, dirty cupboards with precisely placed spicy objects, cursing the absentee with all the roar he can muster. When they come knocking on the door, he carefully positions the hard pressed clothes, they are red because he's oh so passionate. Light is his way. The rabbit is propped by the wire into proportion of towering Baphomet, slowly de-rabbitised in the tradition, give it number 13, day of Friday. Soon fading into the fairy tales where everyone becomes (eventually) clearly given the right place in the alphabet.
Let the rabbits boil their silvery echoes for their wondrous huntsman so he sets back to the softly killings, his palms the gift of the moss. I shall ponder why I've brought my home into his hands to begin with. That is the guilt to carry along in the necklace of them.
I dream of Thames at midnight, where at least a rabbit can choose the softness of one's own never ever after and push hard towards the dawn in the city.
- - -
Petra Whiteley is an author of poetry books 'The Nomad's Trail' and 'The Moulding of Seers', she is writing regularly for Osprey, Eleutheria and The Glasgow Review on variety of issues and literary movements, her poetry and fiction has appeared in various online and print magazines. She's in the process of hunting down a publisher for a book that crosses several genders, dystopia and fantasy to name a few.
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