Cocoon (mbarrett)

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
It's a short prose poem about transcending society and 'breaking free' so to speak.

Submitted: July 30, 2010

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Submitted: July 30, 2010



Three men roll up on a beach, their nice ties collecting minuscule grains of sand between the gaps of the interwoven fibers. Condensed balls of black and white, they leave tracks behind them, picking up sand with each rotation, collecting the beach's skin to form their cocoons.

With the moon peering down on them, and only the sound of the shore lapping up on the beach for undertone, three men remain motionless in sandy cocoons; the scene is calm, tranquil. Inch by inch, the water begins to thicken into black slime, getting hotter and heavier. With the temperature rising, pockets of hot-toxic air begin to permeate the surface, bubbling and releasing poisonous gasses into the atmosphere, and the waves sliding onto the sand stick there, becoming more reluctant every time to retreat back to their enclave.

The plant life comes alive and begins to quickly evolve. Branches begin to thicken and curl out, reaching wildly in all directions and sprouting giant, matted palms and spindly fingers. It begins blushing a fierce rosso-corsa red with lime and harlequin green breaking up the foreground, streaking across and around the plants like warpaint. All this time, the men remain encased on the beach.

Their tracks are now covered up by melted tire rubber and a child's twisted drawing of a dinosaur's environment. The plant life has taken on a life of its own, caressing the top of the sludge with its disfigured hands. With each drop of sludge landing on a leaf, the plant grows more courageous, venturing out into the middle of the black mass and forming a peninsula, perplexing all the astronauts and aliens.

The sandy eggs containing men begin to glow an iridescent white with a tinge of blue. Slowly at first, beginning with one fine particle, the light sweeps across the surface of the sphere to light up the night sky; the moon is now obsolete. Lit up like pearls, they begin to hum. The hum is the deep-throated hum of a man on a mic. Gaining volume, it drowns out the splurging of the ocean, and the sound of the growing branches scraping into, and rubbing on each other. The orbs crack open to reveal all three men, hair grown long and wild, bodies natural and stripped of their clothes.

Pushing apart the pieces of their encasement, they step into the black ooze and walk to the plant, climbing up like black widows the side of a wicker basket. The black lunges like snakes and hangs on like leeches as they climb. They reach the top of the cord and take in the view, seeing the world for what it is; the sky is black, and the world is decaying and quiet. And they begin to walk across the vine towards the belly of the beast, to the center of the world.

Black leaps up the sides trying to sideswipe them, but they keep walking as the wind begins to howl and scream. Torrential rains begin to pour green acid, lighting on their skin and searing away their newly purified flesh, only to be regenerated in an instant, their bodies just as determined as they are. They reach the center of the world on this green peninsula, and turn back to take a look, planting their feet firmly into the cord as small vines snake up and around their ankles and legs. Backs arched, arms flexed, and eyes open, they let out an unrestrained roar--a raging and passionate, lawless scream that quiets the sound of the storm, the thriving plant limbs, and the splurging of the black ocean around them. They scream in detestation for the hungry, for the neglected, for the used, and for all who weren't given a chance.

© Copyright 2019 Matthieu Tristan. All rights reserved.

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