Malebolge

Ours. Ours. Jimmy Gnecco and his shivering voice make me want to curl up and create such art. Such art. Ours. Haunting band -- haunting songs. "Distorted Lullabies" is the album that sings of my life, my biography, mymymymy me. "Sour" is profound, political, cutting, true. "Kill The Band" is a blue-nailed hand that points in a new direction...new direction towards which to walk backwards. Ours. Oh, god. Everything to me.

"Now it's pushed upon me...
It might not breathe --
But it might harm me, stuck inside;
My brains blown out again...
Trust is dead."

I have nothing to say. Nothing to bleed. Nothing to show for the intense, intricate patterns burned into an emotional garbage heap that has been polluting the bone-dry caves behind my gaze for a month. Good morning day. The sun is there. I can't see the light for fear of putting out the waterfall that invariably drenches the wormholes that have developed in the pit of my stomach. I want to [disgussssst]. You. Get that? I am covered in the stench of a million lies, a thousand smouldering desires, ten billion rotten (longing) second-looks. I surely waste away, what with the 'wait for you to take me all the way, wait, wait, take me, all the way? All the way...take me.' Yes. Catch the secret yet?

"Feed from their eyes,
Dream you're alive...
And feel...feel.
The beast flies tonight,
And the world he describes
Suffers, suffers."

Do I ever write anything that anyone can understand? Is there a sentence that comes out of my mouth, these hands (oh, how they hurt now), this wriggling pink brain of mine that doesn't need to be decoded, analyzed, inspected, dissected, twisted, drawn tight across the conscience? Perhaps I'm a reborn project de Da Vinci. Tether me to a mirror and see if my character is shown (true and real) upon that melted sand like mangrove roots on death-still river water. Try it. Get that? Understand it now? Am I making sense?

...Of course not. I'm nonsensical syllables arranged into a pretty pattern that hides in the folds of a great burlap tongue. Don't shoot to kill. Such sparkling colors on those feathers. Just wait, though. Everything turns grey in the absence of me. In the void created by shed feathers. I'd like to make sense to you. I really would. But continuous streams of thought assail me now (even as I write this), and to impart those tangential images is like sugar in my mouth. I can't [for]/[thelifeofme] speak like noun-verb-adjective.

Tell me: is this a problem? No, second thought (look at that 't.' Does it mean anything to you, or am I backing far further into this thought-scape than I intended?)...don't tell me. Just tell me in three words what is beautiful and terrifying and scarring. I love words. The number three is significant. Just ask 'Don't waste your touch...you won't feel anything. Or were you sent to save me?' He knows. He knows far too much. Ever wonder how much I know? Oh, I don't know a thing...save for the fact Naucratis was an ancient Greek city and that I loathe everything related to synthetic chemicals imbibed for the sole purpose of altering a state of mind. Chemicalssubscriptnumberpostscriptpostmortemrigormortis...and he's dead. Oh, the injustice of it all. I want to eat a fistful of heroin and a fingertip dipped in demerol. Then. Thenthenthen.

Now I'm rambling. Shine that light over here. She may be breathing. Tell me, won't you?