I sweep up the ashes of dead turmoil, hung together gently shaded eyes sometimes reside in the radiant woodwork gliding together like the curling currents of heat in a coffee cup all uncurling into the cumbersome roads meandering like syrup down the side of an earthen pancake, their streams look up (where else?) to greet the sky to buy a slim share of the sun's golden graces to equate opportunity with whittling away, the dead rows of off kilter paths shielded by worries and changed to wanderings pulsing with color, everything muted. It is the dull silence of a dream, stupid. Unthinking silence of existential malaise, buy one get one free, says the TV and the newspaper agrees and just below the headline, well just below the ad below the headline for fucking bar-b-q smoked bacon cheeseburgers a la foie gras NEW on the Wendy's dollar menu, you see a real headline here just the other day, Girl Scrapes Out Eyes with Dentist Tools. Couldn't stop her left hand, just sort of went in all of a sudden nobody knew what she was trying to do, not just her eyes, but the thinking tissues behind, ripped it out like a seizure of incompetence, gray matter stillbirth leaking out, her eye sockets all chipped up like broken tea cups.
Of course the reporter doesn't bother to explain why she ordered the dentist tools in the first place, guess she knew they were all of a kind, shod with silver sheen, thus sharp! Looking at the rest of the article, see a picture of her house nestled up near the columns of incomprehensible text
, the article has become deranged in mid-reading, swirling about the periphery of the house's picture as it deepens into your field of vision, suddenly steady it grows larger as I draw closer moving your legs into the frame wresting your blind strides in blackness across one after the other, then the other one after the other then the other then the other then your knee snaps back and down tripping, like the ground was replaced with the loose skeleton of a dead trampoline rotting in the nova of apocalyptic radiations, alpha and beta decays. I shake through the back of my neck and open my eyes to see your room, glinting with the headroom only present in reality, that succor of dimensional being you can feel in your head through your extremities, so familiar as everything is nestled in its place all in its place, but before you can get caught up in it's problems and people you slip back down to your bed and your eyes droop down again basking in blackness fades to centralized ambient purple waves before sleep, wake up the same time tomorrow, I wonder if that girl... if that's all she can see now, the dental instruments turning on her visual purple permanently, so she's left with just these rhythmic waves forever between black and the inside-out static wandering across her visual cortex again and again step after step one after the other after the other I am back in the thick of it in the picture of the house already having done with the business of stepping in before it is here clearly ready to be explored from the newspaper's vantage point guarded by floating rings of corrupted text and unrecognizable characters. They are born from the soot of unconscious hearths smoking like cremation chambers the scent of fragmented ideas roasting as burnt offerings to those gods you worship without prayer, far louder than those squeaking cries on suppliant bended knees laid out one beside the other for mercy, for love, for regrets... steadily underneath the wood floors creaking and cobwebs waft onto the back of your head, like rotten gossamer, and as I move to brush it off another chunk of it drifts invisibly onto your tongue, wrapping around it as I can't move it to spit it out, try to find it, stick your hand into your mouth but I just can't grasp them your fingers are too thick and clumsy to fit, they taste like stagnant mud and grit, the old dusty spider silk laden with mite and fly entrails is still there working its way around your tongue and down your throat, fuck it, working down your throat slowly and steadily, spit it out, goes in deeper, not that, slides down your gullet like blackboard screeches, gritty sandpaper tears esophagus inside out (there's a headline), ripped to shreds, in flashes of pain current situation you've forgotten what was happening, I don't dream. A kettle of sick vultures poured at a screaming boil onto the mountain sit steaming on a wide stone outcropping riddled with puddles of stagnant water, some of their throats are cut out by their own talons bleeding, beaks splintered lying broken in two against the rock, some thrash against the stone wings shredding against the granite, feathers stuck to rubble with thick blood and breaking bone, their fluids pool and drip into the puddles turning them black, mixing with mold and scum until they congeal into rotten scabs across the surface like a pudding's skin, mangy dogs with patches of wiry hair meander by starving and lick them up like dropped pop-sickles hungrily, their ribs cresting the surface of their skin, and then they find the birds twitching following up their thin trails of blood with rough tongues slurping with the pace and sound of a lit fuse to explode onto the vulture's hearts still beating out gushes of delicious life, ripping intestines squirming out pulsing with color, the muck of bird splashes out on their warm moistening noses, tongues flip out to clean them off tasty, you pick up rotten blood flakes in the palm of your hand and a gust of wind blows them shattered into dust into your eyes, blindness blood red into your head, rip, you scream but my tongue is being eaten by one of those hungry dogs, ravished by hunger, too weak to bite back fallen you wait you're drugged and dead to all feeling but the pain of your tongue being pierced over and over again into mush mouth, an overfilled meat sponge, the odd feeling of empty, vision clears and the sound of dog-swallowing tongue, GU-lp, and then a second's pause before scraping out your tonsils, and continues on burrowing down eating you inside out, stay alive you are not dreaming. Who am I again? Morning light shuttered past shutters and eyelids. A pair of hands gropes your kidneys suddenly, finger too thin and long, when you turn they are gone, scrambling up the stairs with a whiff, soundless scratchings of muted silence, stupid. And then another day after the one after the other after the other.
Of course the reporter doesn't bother to explain why she ordered the dentist tools in the first place, guess she knew they were all of a kind, shod with silver sheen, thus sharp! Looking at the rest of the article, see a picture of her house nestled up near the columns of incomprehensible text
, the article has become deranged in mid-reading, swirling about the periphery of the house's picture as it deepens into your field of vision, suddenly steady it grows larger as I draw closer moving your legs into the frame wresting your blind strides in blackness across one after the other, then the other one after the other then the other then the other then your knee snaps back and down tripping, like the ground was replaced with the loose skeleton of a dead trampoline rotting in the nova of apocalyptic radiations, alpha and beta decays. I shake through the back of my neck and open my eyes to see your room, glinting with the headroom only present in reality, that succor of dimensional being you can feel in your head through your extremities, so familiar as everything is nestled in its place all in its place, but before you can get caught up in it's problems and people you slip back down to your bed and your eyes droop down again basking in blackness fades to centralized ambient purple waves before sleep, wake up the same time tomorrow, I wonder if that girl... if that's all she can see now, the dental instruments turning on her visual purple permanently, so she's left with just these rhythmic waves forever between black and the inside-out static wandering across her visual cortex again and again step after step one after the other after the other I am back in the thick of it in the picture of the house already having done with the business of stepping in before it is here clearly ready to be explored from the newspaper's vantage point guarded by floating rings of corrupted text and unrecognizable characters. They are born from the soot of unconscious hearths smoking like cremation chambers the scent of fragmented ideas roasting as burnt offerings to those gods you worship without prayer, far louder than those squeaking cries on suppliant bended knees laid out one beside the other for mercy, for love, for regrets... steadily underneath the wood floors creaking and cobwebs waft onto the back of your head, like rotten gossamer, and as I move to brush it off another chunk of it drifts invisibly onto your tongue, wrapping around it as I can't move it to spit it out, try to find it, stick your hand into your mouth but I just can't grasp them your fingers are too thick and clumsy to fit, they taste like stagnant mud and grit, the old dusty spider silk laden with mite and fly entrails is still there working its way around your tongue and down your throat, fuck it, working down your throat slowly and steadily, spit it out, goes in deeper, not that, slides down your gullet like blackboard screeches, gritty sandpaper tears esophagus inside out (there's a headline), ripped to shreds, in flashes of pain current situation you've forgotten what was happening, I don't dream. A kettle of sick vultures poured at a screaming boil onto the mountain sit steaming on a wide stone outcropping riddled with puddles of stagnant water, some of their throats are cut out by their own talons bleeding, beaks splintered lying broken in two against the rock, some thrash against the stone wings shredding against the granite, feathers stuck to rubble with thick blood and breaking bone, their fluids pool and drip into the puddles turning them black, mixing with mold and scum until they congeal into rotten scabs across the surface like a pudding's skin, mangy dogs with patches of wiry hair meander by starving and lick them up like dropped pop-sickles hungrily, their ribs cresting the surface of their skin, and then they find the birds twitching following up their thin trails of blood with rough tongues slurping with the pace and sound of a lit fuse to explode onto the vulture's hearts still beating out gushes of delicious life, ripping intestines squirming out pulsing with color, the muck of bird splashes out on their warm moistening noses, tongues flip out to clean them off tasty, you pick up rotten blood flakes in the palm of your hand and a gust of wind blows them shattered into dust into your eyes, blindness blood red into your head, rip, you scream but my tongue is being eaten by one of those hungry dogs, ravished by hunger, too weak to bite back fallen you wait you're drugged and dead to all feeling but the pain of your tongue being pierced over and over again into mush mouth, an overfilled meat sponge, the odd feeling of empty, vision clears and the sound of dog-swallowing tongue, GU-lp, and then a second's pause before scraping out your tonsils, and continues on burrowing down eating you inside out, stay alive you are not dreaming. Who am I again? Morning light shuttered past shutters and eyelids. A pair of hands gropes your kidneys suddenly, finger too thin and long, when you turn they are gone, scrambling up the stairs with a whiff, soundless scratchings of muted silence, stupid. And then another day after the one after the other after the other.
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