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Jan. 30th, 2017 03:01 amAnd back in the trunk it all goes. Legs are again bent sticks for walking, ears primitive satellite dishes, chests corsets over smelly factories that sweeten, clean and freshen blood, a sort of syrup for thickening sheets of rice-like tissue till they curl. The moon's a stone, the sun's a tire fire, all the distant stars are sparks. The sky's a non-corrosive gas. Your mother's a failed clone and a failure at cloning. You're an ad for how strangers' kids might be. Your children are the frayed end of an old rope of bugs dangling down into nothing. Most of what you did this week not even you remember, and most of the rest you could have dispensed with or done next week. You could have lived this entire life a million times and you'd never have known it, as your brain's a bumpy clump in a capsule of bone. Your skeleton would click and grate and your nerves would tangle and matte and your veins would burst and writhe and your muscles would droop and unravel if they weren't all squished up together just so. Hair's disgusting. Genitals don't look right at all. We don't want to know how anything's made or where anything's going, not really. We're each a show that's pretending it's gone to the show. Only being wrapped up in lies of our own stops us from seeing how everyone else is lying sans cease and why, but we still get the gist. Narcissists are humans who get caught. Your good deeds are a channel you turn on when company's over or someone at work might ask what happened. Boredom and hatred rate limit each other. Love's the worst asshole of all.
The six glass tubes in the trunk bump and stir as much as their brown velvet sockets permit. The red one's fizzing, the green glowing, the pink palpitating, the blue ringing, the orange swirling, the black shining. Each liquid is thick as heavy cream, light as silk, warm as hands. Together they sound like they're making a plan. They smell like the start of next week.
As you are they mean nothing to you. In you, on you, they'd be everything. You'd need nothing more. Your skin would be pure, your limbs solid. The lines of your face would spell a new word any passer would notice, weigh, think about. How do you always miss it when they peel and drain away? Why do you never remember there's more in the case? Who is it that, when the chime is heard, pops it open, shakes them lightly, sprays you with their contents in a new configuration? It looks like someone different every time.
The six glass tubes in the trunk bump and stir as much as their brown velvet sockets permit. The red one's fizzing, the green glowing, the pink palpitating, the blue ringing, the orange swirling, the black shining. Each liquid is thick as heavy cream, light as silk, warm as hands. Together they sound like they're making a plan. They smell like the start of next week.
As you are they mean nothing to you. In you, on you, they'd be everything. You'd need nothing more. Your skin would be pure, your limbs solid. The lines of your face would spell a new word any passer would notice, weigh, think about. How do you always miss it when they peel and drain away? Why do you never remember there's more in the case? Who is it that, when the chime is heard, pops it open, shakes them lightly, sprays you with their contents in a new configuration? It looks like someone different every time.
