New post on the Word Virus page:
Squeeze the sweat from the curtains and pull yourself up a body. You’ll need eyes for this.
Squid ink burst from her eyes and left her in a deep darkness. The sun hung helplessly on the edge of the horizon like a used towel, its rays dripping off of her face, forgotten. Drunk and whispering, the moon smiled but the shine hit the ink and fizzled. She wouldn’t see no more, day or night, not even with a light bulb plugged directly into her forehead.
She would lie down then, and dream. The ink didn’t burn now and if she relaxed red pyramids would rise from the blackness and she could watch the Shadow Men go about their heckling and hustling. They would never touch her. Her sweat stank and they kept away. She could find all the light in her blood and walk it straight into their bazaar and not a one would even show her his hands.
The ink dried the next morning as she slept and the birds began to chip away at the crust of her eyes. But she had gone walking in her dreams and wasn’t due back for some time. The rains would wash the ink away. The birds would keep her bones clean. She would come home and find herself changed.
The night rain began to seep into my sleep and loosen things up. The cobwebs I had been allowing to gather in my tubes washed away in a sticky wad that squished when it hit my fever hot pillow. I hadn’t realized that the webs had become structural necessities in the halls of my mind
When a brain deflates, it makes a sound not unlike a obese clown farting into a balloon representation of a midget giraffe and letting go too soon.
I saw it begin to slink away, but it had taken my motor skills with it, which it held before itself like a cane of oozing light. It turned the corner and I could not see how the moonlight made it shine. All I could do was lie awake in the dreamless void that I was left with, wondering how my boss would react to the news that I was brainless once again.
Anybody can write about writing when they write. The physical marks on the page, or pataphysical squibbly dos and don’ts that darken your desk from the accursed holyholoteloscreen in front of which you now sit, dear reader, are evidence of the manifestation of the writer as writer. And so anything that comes out can be considered writing, whether or not the blood is up and the mind is fucking the stars with artistic might, whether or not the modern muse sits sipping expensive waters and playing on her communicator beacon, waiting for godsknowwhat. Don’t you see that what I’m writing is written writing, held up by angels in the dark lord’s court of giggling fuck cattle, as written as anything that has come before? The writing writ large as Writ for some to see. Like you, dear reader.
Continue to allow me access to you language centers and I will attempt to emboozle you well.
Good morning, good afternoon, and goodnight.
The gears in the bird’s throat slipped and from its dry beak came a clicking instead of a whistling. The sun stood still at the edge of the horizon, suspicious, not wanting to light up a world of clicking birds, farting trees, pontificating children, and drowning fish. Every morning it peered upon this absurd planet and it asked for nothing but to be present as the graves of all existence were dug and filled in, dug and filled in, dirt upon bones upon dirt upon bones. But a bird that clicks calls nothing back from the dead and the sun, that shiny necromancer, would have all life presented before him to touch with holy light the skin of the all-wriggling. What would come today then? thought the sun as it peaked for but a moment over the hillside, the light of its hair revealing the leering towers of metal creaking in the wind and the birds hanging thereupon, click click clickity clacking, each gear greased a bit now that they were all clicking together and feeding each other breaded worms and cheese doodle snack packs.
With voices like marbles, the birds gave up music and the sun pissed its skin lasers into the void like a petulant child leaving only a cold and dying angel that had been so keen on the songbirds before they had revolted against beauty that it had set upon itself the billion year flame, now a distant and disappearing light in the black sky.
Get that pie out! The crust has bubbled into cracking, the skin erupting sugar shit and hot lava death by now. How many mouths wait, watering? You are nothing if not the bringer of pie. Would you exist without these pies? Not in this form. Not with those hairs bouncing in the oven’s heat, singed and singing noxious notes in the nose of the lady that waits for pie. And the lady that waits hates waiting!
Apple, cherry, (what the fuck is this?) peanut butter? Throw this one at the first clown handed dandy you see. It’s not hot and the lady only likes them hot as hell-fire. She cums with the burning of tongues. Pies like napalm sandwiches she frames on the walls of her memory’s palace. Her very teeth need blackened with the soot of my culinary heresies. This is not the queen you revere. This is not the old one with the tits in the window or the young with her ass on the seesaw. Those ladies will wait. The lady that waits will not. Why are you still standing here with pies in your hand, cooling in the energy thieving air? Go. Go now. Put knees to ground and crawl if the way is too cramped. Cut guts from those in your way and string them like ladders across the frozen falls of false expectations. Take turds and blood and become friction free.
Time is not kind to a pie and a lady that waits is kind to no one when she waits for pie.
Rat Shit rolled across the carpet and sung he his song: “I gather the dust. I gather the dust.”
In the corner, building a black boat from bamboo and epoxy, whispering praise to the lines radiating cross-ways from his project, Lewis grunted his acknowledgement of Rat Shit’s antics without looking upon the rotten heap of a man.
“I gather the dust.”
The boat would be finished by morning. Lewis would be take it for a test float as the sun rose above the red cliffs of the gorge. The sunlight would strengthen him, blood and boat. When he returned for his midday snack, Rat Shit would be silent (as he was when the sun spoke its most powerful words.)
“I gather the dust.”
And silently then would he be loaded into the boat and sent down the river to find a wife. Or a wolf’s mouth.