☬

* the phone rang at three or four minutes past noon. i lifted it up off the hook to no signal at all and stood waiting in the faintest shadow of anticipation, ears tensing as bug antennae anticipating for a voice to break through.

* going great lenghts in order to conjure proper textual images that could, in the stripped blurb of a webpage, describe our sound to a certain degree of accuracy. so far the amygdalae have been too successful for my own good, and all i’m left with is a manga storyboard for close galaxies starmapping, jolt down in the untrembling certainty of a windowpane hour or two. every cluster of tickling seconds ultimately points to yet another garland of masquerades for planets shaking, hurricanes mating and collectives of snake lightnings striking at once over the only stray piece of metal for miles on end. the rumbling semiotics, the subdued yet poignant attempt at mass dehypnosis, the staggering nurture of blood flowing back into warmed up bodies as a prelude to early morning feverish slow motion intercourses.

* our days and actions, i’m afraid, carry the same weight of the ash cone hitting the exhaust coffee powder in the ashtray as i type this leaning over the laptop laid over the wooden chest i am delusionally referring to as my desk these days. same weight and sound too, the relevance of dust with no evil feeding bugs upon it. bodies develop allergies, allergies slow down and embody into routine daemons; energy favours simple systems and so daemons get power and develop their unmistakably hallmarks in return: and an itch carries a buzzing contemptuos circling of hushed thoughts, wrapped around lichenlike, strangling;

* and that’s what i felt as the liquid seeped through the tiny pinched cuts: and i couldn’t refrain myself from reading the content of the labels visible from my orbit: and i was reading the wrong things: as i thought betullae, as i thought oak: and the local dump of truth was hailing at a nucleus of matter smothered into flying particles instead;

* a new goal if the concept of goal is to be considered: gaining an entry named after myself at Monstropedia; waiting three lifetimes to fill up the content, leaving a placeholder in the meanwhile: that panel fragment from Charles Burns Black Hole, the girl in the toilet, alone, reflected into wall long mirrors, thinking:

i look normal but i’m not.
i’m a monster.

Comments Closed | Trackback URI