He carried in crates and took them up to his attic bedroom. She was in one, her sisters in more, and her roommate, still alive, lugging the pungent fruit of last fall. He kept them all. His home was remote enough where he could do that, and he could keep ones like the living one for a time.
Chapter 3 - Microbiotic
The same visit, repeatedly. The same shrouded visitor. Under her cargo, those buckets of crisp water, she was ruby and shining paste of cream and yellow. The sinking seas spit lightning into my bowels. Grinding...
When I first reached the installation, the first thing that I noticed was the blood gushing from my nose. There is no god for what I am, nevertheless I prayed. I watched hundreds of hours of snarled oak trees. I was confined. I was blessed by holy men. I was marched on gravel roads and lined-up along chain-link fences. I was stripped and stranded in vast marshlands. The night was loud as hell. Rivers and banks of oils, tinctures, and lung fibers as I wear her legs like a straight-jacket. Atomized blood and bone, fountains of the ancient as I drive my teeth and finger-bones...
Swaying with the tide. Burning out with the lanterns. Sleeping with insectoid gods. She lifts her shirt. It is so thin and graciously passing beyond our world, the fruit of death. Hard on her ribs. Breathing flowers and blues. She sinks into me. The ache of human, beyond her merciless tights. She eases the purple strikes behind me. She sips. She blooms. She explodes with pus and safety candles.
I had a friend. He was my alternate. He built me a surrogate womb of my design. He swaddled me in blue gel. He packed me in gauze, the layers growing thicker and more tightly woven as they piled. He kissed me with spicules.
A swallow of hell preciously strangling in screaming again. Vomit in my knife blade. No one has ever tasted her like I did. Swarm of unidentifiable chemicals at her side. My rock-hard spirit in her chest. Her vermin slumping to the beat in side alleys. Soft as orgones, slippery as burial mud.
Cupid slid her greasy limb inside me. The pressure filled me. The pinch and ache pressed against my walls all the way up into my torso and a sorrow crept into my skull, behind the plates of my cheekbones. Living blood like fleas skittering across my waxy meat. I speak to my partner, glazed in an extraterrestrial sweat, pressed together in points. A long, deep echo invades me. Her soft palate ripples like a throaty bird. Her mucous is the sun, and her breath is the mucous. She is in chambers of photographs. She is in stalking of sepia. Her fluids flow and I erupt in pain. The skin of her...
Maureen reaches out with her plastic ribs. Maureen reaches out with her telepathic lipstick. This is a gross feat, full of thick distance of carbide air. Maureen reaches out with tears. Maureen reaches out with a switchblade. I’m gonna take her in my heart before she calls the police. Those three prophets from before, their high-speed like fire of a great city, they are on their way again to assist. Their voices crack soft, so far away, soft like rust gathered in the sweaty hand. But they are quick.
Organ like a terminal patient wheezing and moaning under the purple and orange of the evening. The soft breath and autumn of her portrait on the wall. Slick and freezing are the stones. Warm and wet is my cot. Polished so hard I’ve made my wax into steel. Sun is coming up on the inns and alleys in the form of old powdery flash bulbs. I will never rest until I can stare as deep inside her as I want.