Each step is visual memory, a compulsion of the past; each step makes sure her sensory of Belial does not last. Steps she counts in sixes, numbers scored by a test, circles of obsession, a preventive with no rest.
She finds herself in and out of the City of the Angels, the warmness invites her at times it makes her freeze. There is never a springtime in Southern California; the many tons of concrete keep season’s barren seed. The shadows they move from one cloud to another, looking for altars on the ground below. Dry lightning strikes when it has smelled an ion, rising or falling but when it dies, how cold. Hold up your head and see those red-eyed angels, when in despair they hold an even glow. Preachers mope about looking for heaven, when dusk arrives; they will paint the pavement, with anything they you want to believe. Nothing stills like the flesh of temptation, pierced and ready a Christian deceived.
She holds herself in a heavy sweater; her arms covered though it is one hundred and nine degrees. What was there is gone behind her, it is a daemon, that will never leave. Did he press you, subtly hold you, and exhale without breath when you would breathe? No doubt, he is willing to wait for you here in LA, where life’s monsters breed. So she thinks about what is opportunity, for a thirty-eight year old with a past of mental disease. While overhead, the red-eyed angels grin and whisper obsession is your need. Another day she will take an Uber may be go down to the beach, but for now, she stands near Hollywood, scratching at something only she sees.
Perhaps she finds the time going quickly, much faster as she has aged, for in the twinkling as the lights come on, she is alone in west LA. The sky above her tilts it’s features, and the clouds looks darker still, and the coastal demons are falling, none the less she will do what she will. On an empty corner in darkness, near an old house in decay, she loses her thick sweater, and her arms they lift in grace.
And the G-Ds they love her madness, and they bend to kiss her scars, from a lifetime of insanity to find out just what they are. For the queen of random tragedy is dancing in near dark. In a truth, she floats with angels, in the steps of her inner flame, for she counts off all the numbers that make the matrix of G-Ds true name. It is a rapture of pure essence, a hypothesis not known, that sends her beauty to the heavens, to escape the asylum where she has grown, in LA. – 04.04.2018 – דָּנִיֵּאל