Tuesday, May 10, 2011

survivors of the mass deleation

Gag reflex tightrope. No one had to tell them they were alive. Birth as masturbation, spreading from folded lungs. Only then do you shiver. Come back in the hope you'll spill for me. Cause though all our vomit is cold only one us is empty. Faith is brushing admission like shelved fruit flies. There's still the chance i love you, if only for the guts left behind. When i wake up in the holes it's like the worms of the earth have grown nails over their heads and were taught to digest in reverse. Finally, I wasn't waiting.

Wasps lathed in breast milk. A bubbling inner elbow. my brain is time lapse footage of a rotting deer head. zinc petals catapult beetles with rain. Dropping clumps of grass and dirt into her mouth. At last we’ve got a taste for flagstone from the gravel they brush off their knees. Muddy palm prints on her thighs, as if she’d been dragged from a grave. bruises crossed over each other like a biohazard sign. Bifurcated by wolves. Auto-erotic rope tricks. wept in the subconscious, creaky jointed sisters swab fly traps with iodine. now I feel the burn of sin on sin.

Chlorinated IVs. A nursery of harlequin babies. Tanked in disinfectants, leavings from a soap dish fizz in powdered veins. Manure architects oven baked for days in a sulfur field of dead geese. Open their mouths and all that comes is the lake-logged moan of drowned kitten litters. There is no one left to say that the floors won’t move for me. Jangling rat eyes like hurricane wind chimes, I suck acid from greasy puddles at my feet. Pour hot tar on my sleeping head.

The voices come from the blood, touching my wounds in the raw. Light boiled all my tears away before anyone living was born. Replaced every limb with glass still half sand, anatomy rattled by hardware and presence. A rib-spreading Rorschach test clue the right ones in and alone. Languishment would be an admission of your strength not being ill-placed. Children are tombs for youth... Live roaches removed from a woman’s tongue. She hatched the eggs under her lip in the hope that maggots would crawl out instead. Paraphilic infants crucified and eaten by pigs. Guignol pin-ups play "lambs" knowing they can’t tell me where the aloe goes. Their teeth are a ground the most delicate tread could splinter. You deserve to be bullied if their mother is dead.

I can hear sounds around the back of my brain similar to crunching on bricks of salt. Skinned dogs cry blood at the edge of my eye, held open with clockwork of skewers. Heated needles up to the periphery with band-aids on her fingers; clumsy extensions of bamboo yellowed nails. Pinioned and taped to a revolving door, a mother flicks her child’s trembling lips. Aluminum plunges pus pregnant cists before the box cutter. All scars will crawl along warped glass shavings, picked by hand from damp red carpets.

The chains are pulled through holes in their wrists, tow truck hooks dangling from their cuffs. Slug mold furrows like a field of pine neeldes, halting acid sentences. TV cables braided into their muscles, amphibian-throated and ectopic in the red chairs. Fiber glass grows in moon bleached attics, opening fight minds to their oblivious chacanery. Settling debts through the eerie cosmos of clarity, forced to endure the atmosphere's philmic incisions that make the skeleton known. We are the excrement of all the burrows. At the neck we idle like baby teeth, so strike your air-bravado outside the fictiondrome and see where your pure bloods will lie. Once the cage and rack factor into your empty malice, my eternal quiet will be welcome on your behalf.

Tunnel vision anesthesia encroaches on all the right worms. A Kabuki understudy in a white oxygen mask kneads cobwebs into a drop-net over my open chest so my entrails won't stain your holy ground again. Albino vultures fixed in potato bug coil gather crucifix twigs at the sight of a stomach acid brush fire. Boneless braided fingers echo limbless reverb. Souls are mud when held against a skin pulled off in one piece. Roman decadence with slaughterhouse efficiency. Rainwater has been pumped through the bridge of my nose, skull lost in a gore-violet riptide, exhausted by words being my sole brush with the meta-beyond.

Communication has failed my age. I know the pattern all to well. These ether contortions. Flat reactionary. No more no less. Scanners pock the grid with ballpoint lice. Clouds lactate amber, informing mosquitoes of their environmental autism. honey spiked with hallucinogens from a pig's head turn graves into tracheotomy tubes. There is not one pound of you that will elevate penance beyond piss-elegant punishment, so sheath your contusions then blame the seamstress behind your veil.

Something kills me about teenagers on power-strip tightropes... slaying each other with harpoons, telekinesis, and vague body art. The snow smokes pencil lead nightshade, warping a curve into flat-earthed sinisters. From stem to sternum the charnel dolls go up, their spirits revealed not in the smoke but the soot it cakes on blue concrete like oil-geyser wakes, stretching their voodoo intestines across a crowded surf, muting the steam rising from the prophetic ganglia as not to give the end times away. but how do you hide Armageddon? obscure it beneath creamed veils of flayed abdominal walls, sun-baked pink and confectioned with sea salt? Look down and whisper "No". Spare the recourse. They'll never change. Not even in the face of twin death's heads, fire cracker string nerves shortening with every dismissive stare.

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