another day

I slept a slumberless dream. In the magnitude of silver eyes, I swam away. The thousand glistening tadpoles. Ten hundred cells in pure uniform.

Teeth baring under solid silver, metallic clang. A voice of an officer. Shouting, rasping, angry as barter. Tulips leak a fluid which flees from every orifice. Escaping bloom in spring, in dignity.

There is a depthless pool of gutted carcass. Stark, black + white. A majestic kingdom of white blood and ice.

The elongated being with a red rooster neck was sitting slumped in a brown orifice chair, fetted with a million years of dust and bugs. His long neck craned at the sound of any coercing voice. They sound of nectar, pure and honey.

The words dripped from his lips thick as come. Unspeakable acts wrapped silently in secrecy of sodomy and solitude.

x

oh one oh one

I'm not sure exactly as to what I am meant to write here. Surely there should be some forewarned reason or list of literary intent?
No.

I am grossly drawn to the dreary side of human mentality. I love the mundane, apparently boring, aspects of human life. To sit beside someone for however many hours watching recurrent television is, to me, bliss. Why?

I like to feel the oxyen beneath the ribcage. I imagine the breathing human apparatus inside the web of flesh, the operational calcium, the sternum heaving heavily outward. I can see the pink and heat of lungs and air. The heart is sending life to every external. Between my legs the pulse in his thigh is beating. Our veins collide as they stretch for space, forcing their barrier outward into one another. I feel nauseated and soothed in the same moment. Tentatively grabbing for comfort, imagining thickening blood and blue tracts beneath the delicate skin of the inner wrist.

Such soft comfort. The pulse in the forehead like beating winds on a branch, tangled and furious in a storm.
A hero would not be a hero nor a villain a villain if they had not committed to their actions. Thus whatever I say should be accounted to truly give record of what or who I am. To delete any word would indeed be censorship and who am I to hide the world from my own imagination? What would be the point to speak at all if I weren't to bare all thoughts for the public domain?

I would stand as some icon, some lie, some christchild I could never live up to be.

I am me. I am Mika. Michael. Whoever. I am these bones within muscle within skin, typing at the command of a synapse. I am a thoughtful being. A thoughtless monster.

To be now, to vow....should I utter such words to curse myself as forever being..honest?

Can I really be the vitriol and hate I feel? Can I be as truthful as Honesty itself?

There is so much trouble and danger in bringing out the bad and Good. For one I know I have much faith in humankind; but I, of ill-will intent, am troubled. I feed off negative things that benefit me, such a human infliction. Will I ever overcome selfishness or will it become me? In my search for purity what, what, WHAT will I turn into?
What will I uncover?

She had the widest smile, her lips were far apart.
She let all the boys know how happy she was
With the mouth beneath her heart.

I'm having frequent nightmares.

There was one boy, the decapitator. He slashed open the thick throats of men and pulled everything out. He severed the heads of beautiful women, stretched the skin of their mouths back so far they had a permanent and full grimace. They were wild eyed with horror yet smiling all the same.

The floor was filling with sticky blood. One cadaver left in a bathtub began to decompose rapidly, began to bubble and burst, spilling over the edges. Green and gore and skin and hair started to fill the room. Bodies melted together in unholy union. The sound was like a boiling kettle and everything in view was angry liquid rising...

I looked down at my knife and woke up.

CIRCLES

How ugly will I become?

How beautiful was I?

How good should I be?

How bad have I been?

we are waves

I have to take a deep breath, dragging oxygen to the very pit of my body. As a wreck of nerves and with my body bruised I heave myself up the stairs and take my seat at the front of the bus. Sitting alone in front of the windscreen I can see so much pass by. The depth of field stretches far, holding secrets in the distance and telling stories of other lives. I want to expand so much that the integrity of my being collapses and I am part of the air.

Another long, deep breath.

I slump my head against the glass and watch kids run into the road, buses storm past men who a few seconds previously had attempted to step foot out in front of them. I think...ants. I think of futility. My eyes don't come to focus on any one thing but more observe everything in range. I am totally aware of time passing, every second and thought. I ebb back into myself as I exhale, as though there's no life in me without the air. The city is far and grey and stretches out into the sky and space and forever and I'm inside of a machine that wants to keep me on the dirty Earth.

The sun falls out from behind a cloud...I close my eyes to pretend I'm not there and people can't see me. I am white light and I am warm. I think of space and the future, I feel a sort of happy sad. The comfort and fear of the universe all at once.

One day there will be nothing at all, so sleep easy.

O

x