T&A

Out there. Dumb, alone and ugly.
In here. Dumb, alone and ugly, and slightly more content, since nobody loves dumb alone and ugly, and a source of dissonance is a role I’d rather not step into.

Somebody laughs as someone else tries to scrabble out from the pit. A flower bed among great oaks, and the chaos in my prison chokes the winter above ground. Cacophony of nutrients. Time is frozen at the surface. Life frightens me, as an inevitable conclusion. Sucked below the waves, behind teeth behind my back a trapdoor spider a snake a carnivore growing herbs from the ripples. All in perfect harmony. In love.

Rocket propelled. Frantic eyes. Pushed into every kind of death. Panic. Trying to hold it all together. A look away. Navigation of the soul. Staring too long might mean something for not just me, but for the ghosts I hold in a sac in the deepest reaches of organs making sense of my heartbeat. Something I will never know. Something that will never know me. Something that will break my heart. Golden rings, dark arms around me. Telling me I’m safe. A box in the sun, family members beckoning. A subconscious responsibility. Expectation. (Static electricity where clouds were collecting feelings. In bed with desire.)

Ghosts telling me I’d travelled millions of years into the future. Expecting something from me. Like I’d brought them there. Like they were angry with me for it.

The conclusion, the answer, that there’s always something wrong with me. I was born into a cage and the bars are living and breathing. I could never harm them, when the problem is me. Perspective, perspective, one mirror two mirrors. Golden mirrors. Retarded. To survive.

Laying on the ground. Light flowing out of me. Torment, really. But it’s cheered on. Floating above it. Convinced of an interpretation, in unison, happy patronage, coliseum. Infected, immunized, infected, immunized, single cow powering the continuation of never ending complacency. It’s a perspective. You’re alone when you’re being eaten by a horse. In the deep dark wells of that being, souls as slaves to internal order is the only possibility. That’s the technique.

I once dreamt I crawled out of an ocean onto a muddy bank. Females in bikinis, sirens, calling my name (fingers pointed at their crotches). Grey and colourless. I wandered over. Humanoids, dark eyes, massive skulls, teeth, wrestling me to the ground. Looking back, they were still young, even if I were younger. This is what happens when you don’t have books to read about the local wildlife.

Scared and alone. Alone and scared. Or scared of people. Because they make you feel alone. What am I, food? For a good cause. Or to carry on frantic and blind and at the mercy of the elements and the biology and. The phase of clocks. The colour of your eyes. You are a way out, a way in, that’s all I want sometimes. Unison in the dark, where it tempts my dreams into colour, beautiful structure, communication which leads to someplace better. Jumped high up here because there is not where we want to be. A constant battle with darkness. Diversity in the attic.

Grow your own light kits. Solar panels. Attack attack attack attack the shadows from the shadows. Cancel it out with phase and nomnomnom. Style over substance. Carried away with your technique. Immune system immune system immune cyst. Zoloft and viagra. Everything I want to procreate with is trying to kill me. Trace amounts of great ape. Another branch is not acceptable. Eugenics persists, you will be disposed of. Arrows and arrowheads. Parasites.

You don’t do enough. Trapped in a cage which I can’t perceive.

Please record my mistakes in a big book of mistakes so you can judge me in the afterlife.
But make sure that your vocabulary is staccato, condescending in pitch and ambiguous so that I may never escape your assertion. (It would be interesting to create a nation breastfed on this pattern, just to see how mad the inhabitants would become. You could probably do that.)

Simulation of galaxy clusters, nodes in the multiverse, call it one eye (but not spaced in parallel so that they’ll never form a stereo field). Actually phi got stuck in my ears. Frequency. I once knew a girl with cute ears. Now I’m old. The end.