the cobra snake
Every night has a morning after. It doesn’t matter if you’re there for it or not. Three thousand years from now there will be another dawn following the whirlwind darkness. Even when our world returns to dust the cosmic clock will still spin. Now rushes towards the future like metal to a magnet. This momentum is greater than all else.
As this thought buzzed through his mind Bishop Cobra lay half-propped on a canvas cot, its aluminum frame jutting between his ribs in a slow ache. He’d been bone dry for over a decade. In these sauce-free days his mind had shed its hazy skin to slither with cold clarity. Sweet damned sobriety had unlocked an infinite loop of escalating insight.
He tried to shut it out with television but every electron seemed to zap in slow motion. It was as if time froze and he could separate the reds, blues and greens and place them into the spectrum like a prism connecting the colors to their linguistic representations. RED a violent explosion splattering off the tongue in turbo. Machine guns blasting > Rrrrrrrrrrrrrred. Was this the same red that had first spit from lips or was it a modern red with all the history of its redness piled high in generations of waxy apples, sunken rubies and sliced thumbs? He could follow the lines of a thousand such thoughts to distant stations while still absorbing in crystal clarity the details of a streaming C-Span stock ticker, every ingredient served up through Emeril’s thick lips, a gaggle of girls gone wild, so many pimped rides, ominous TLC tidal waves and Korean evangelists saving souls with their alphabet of circles and squares.
He did have one means of escape from his inquisitive self, a tender feminine touch. So every Friday night Bishop would slide on his boots made of once hissing snakes and head down to the Hickory Hills Motel for a visit with his gals. They were born cobra charmers and with every brush of starchy hair against his smooth chest Bishop felt the bliss of nothingness. His mind mute in vacuous harmony he would drift peacefully on threadbare sheets and squeaky springs until the mental roar returned, riding on the swinging clock hands of that damned morning after, and damn did he spin.
Illustrations by: Kozy
Stories by: frosty
These images & words will be appearing amongst illustrious others between the glowing covers of Kozy’s “Unknown Portraits” book. Visit kozyndan.com for the full scoop.