LOGAN McCARTHY - The Esplanade Man
3A melodic reading of the first chapter of my book, :D
Lyrics:
Pale pestilence and plague of a palomino veil draped forth and forthwith. Leaning towers, quilted of verdant halls, left unbound by any one being, stood bereft of aridity as the globules dripped by in unstable trails, and a balsam-whiff scented high and true, bellowing deep the flowered grade which sided the knoll. There were mossy stones dotting antediluvian rails, flying buttresses wreaked of vine-locked contortions and piney festers, while needle-curtains of evergreen shade closed their blinds to marred floors jutting far and out a great mausoleum. Amidst the pillars which hoisted said levels aloft lay bare a varied array of stones, peeled off of anonymous sources, scattered unintentionally throughout the depreciated tiles. Out of the necropolis centre moseyed a robed man, a lavish-burgundy book in hand, whistling, and whistling, under fierce constitutions of pine and needle-limb entanglements. "Another fork, another split, another laugh, another stick, a bough, a weed, a root, another hollow stamped by boot..." Reaching a midpoint, the man met with an old friend, an abiotic comrade, his dearest chair. It's tightly sewn leather of a muddled brown hue wrapping snuggly around revealed glints of occasional bolts of gold and rusted copper. A boy of adolescence watched his sitting down upon the throne, and the unfolding of something crimson. He walked to him. "You look funny," he said openly.
"Right I do." He turned a curious page, as the book turned a curious man. "My viewable humor is based on a raison d'être, to get this face to smile tellingly at the luminosities of others' cheeks hoisted high." He waited, and a laugh of his own throat tittered through, and he said, "But never witty for the purpose of being witty."
"I don't understand."
He coolly eyed him, "Well, read, my boy, you will learn."
"May I read that?" he pointed bluntly, and the man gazed at his book-bearing hands.
"No, I am sorry, but I am reading this now. You may read something else."
"I want to read that one."
"You may read the covers."
But the boy was importunate, "But there's nothing on the covers. Nothing's even labeled."
"Then read the binding, this veneered spinal column and the subtle mastery of it all, interpret upon its tacit engineering, so that you may one day make your own book." The boy could not argue with this, for one day, he may just want to build his own book. He inferred and soon noted the man's trickery; the backbone's hidden workings masked behind the spine itself. He should very much like to dash up and claim said book, to tear out the pages in a prearranged chaos and learn the art of the spine. But for now, he wanted the read of a different knack, to read of words and worlds built of 'once upon a time' and 'they all lived happily until their deaths', to be saddened of fins and heels remiss of the ever-so coveted concept of sequel, and to be inspired, overall, to construct something commendable of synonymous significance and even the implausible surpassing of said consequence.
"The Planes of Taladrieus by Nicolai Evven," he murmured, the boy's eyes lifted slightly. He whispered, "The name is never firm, it varies with the tongue. He is most commonly named Nicholas Even." He flipped shriveled leaves. "His anecdote's far too grand a one."
"Are you to read his?"
"His is a bible, I'm afraid. Curst Biblicists and their broken dittologies of the Evven Scriptures, they've gone and blown his tale out of proportion." He steadied his gaze amidst the lines. "I am no Evvenist."
"May I read that?"
"Good heavens, you've only just asked me that. The binding-"
"I can't read the binding."
"Not your tongue?"
"It may be, but I don't know. It's hidden behind itself!"
"Well, be it, then, read the floor, the entablatures, I don't care. Just leave me to my read."
"Is that his tale?"
"Does it look like a holy book to you, gravely a holy book?" He rippled the tome in his hands, wild eyes peering edgily.
"There's a possibility. I may never know."
The man pursed his lips. "Fine manner, good call. Sadly, no, this tale is merely of relation to him."
"You talk funny, too."
Reasserting his attention, he adjusted his sitting position, all the while holding a dull gaze on the boy.
"Right I do."