Only scars render a reality

27Jan11

Today I was a psychotic symptom.

For about half an hour I concentrated my intentionality into my voice, sent it out into the mind cavity of a bruise faced lesbian and insisted paranoid messages of threat and preemptive violence. A coke bottle became a sexy thing for gouging eyes and ice skates were for fun-sized guillotine parties. All in all it was enjoyable half an hour. Tomorrow I might send my consciousness into a vagina and see what it is like to be one.

It is night. The walls are rice paper. I have no sound except the ever present electronic screeching in my brain and the warm hum of a laptop in the darkness. Such is defeat. And I say to her:

‘I’m a little teapot short and full of scolding rage. Smother me with a tea cosy and lay my naked body beside a plate of old lady biscuits’.

She asks what kind of biscuits, not realising that biscuits are submerged most of the time in the Miasmal underside of all possible articulation. So I tell her:

‘We’re in the land of treacle things, oozing runny in the stale sun, all fuzzed with pink fringing and encased in Fondant, with the kinds of names that make adolescent boys delightfully confused as if they’d just found themselves staring at their mother’s bottom’. That kind of thing. I talk until I have hollowed out my face.

Are you picturing it? The curtains are drawn but the light still peaks through. On the table beside me is a dolly. It is stained with spilt sugar that has mixed with splashes of tea. It has begun solidifying. Somewhere, from upstairs maybe, there is the sound of a crying cat and an alarm clock. The noise of them is incessant. Everything smells of vertigo.

There are art deco women on the mantle. They send static fluctuations and EVP waves to hallucinate the room more vivid. Its there voluptuary luxuriousness, their leisurely repose that smuggles unattended sexuality into the undisturbed monotony of grandfather clocks and hair. They’re innocent eroticism conjures images of soda fountains, dead men’s curves, Elvis Presley’s accusatory crotch and Oppenheimer’s midnight tears. A punctum in the stillness. Naked in the eternal afternoon. Enticing a new mythology of shameless sex. An unsettling promiscuity dredging at the foetal signals of an aetheric catastrophe. Underneath their ceramic surface; no intestinal parasites or neurological disorders. Their perfectly moulded bodies the product of some pervert’s obsessive love. Their heads entirely empty, mirroring the excavated consciousness of the age in which they are forgotten.

I could cry, I tell her. And a question. I say it.

‘I could cry. Instead I will smoke. How do you feel about such matters? Do you think we could smoke so much that our lungs become bridges across the labial lips of the multiverse?’

She is silent for a time. I want to grab her by the indolence and see what scars might radiate under UV light. To give her to the Salvation Army and have her work to render hope in factories of gleaming intoxication. I stagger under the weight of cause and effect, groping for an aetiology I could invest my fortune in. I can’t move her a bit. Something about separations. A metaxu imploding. A distorting archetype made from the dreams of autistic ghosts. We haunt one another as apathetic poltergeists. Incapacity and desolation. Wet lips and closed eyes. Stapled stomachs. Weighing up our options.

‘Listen’, I tell her (no longer with my mouth but with swarms of neurotoxins that slam through my skull) ‘let’s cut the nonsense and focus on what’s really going on here. You and I are embodied forms of ancient and nameless Gods. Apocalypse between our teeth. Spines made of slime moulds that slither off. I’m not willing to tell the truth any more and counterfeiting just isn’t the same as delirium. We’re talking ancestral futures and the splitting of all the Emanations’.

I gazed into the abyss but saw no monsters. I tried to stay awake. I tried.

Time keeps churning vicious acids from the pit. It all continues. Tomorrow will be the same again.

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2 Responses to “Only scars render a reality”

  1. Quite an array of images and raw emotions.

  2. 2 dronemodule

    Cheers Slp. I forget what motivated it.


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