The science of silence sans sleep made messy rote on my conundrum:
I spent Saturday vomiting, while wishing for words instead. I took science to sleep instead. I slept all day Sunday, dreaming of Chicago: I spent the day inside a coffee shop without a name composing fake Facebook apologies to all the people I was not intending to see while I was there. Corked awoke midnight Monday morning. Spent the remainder playing phantasy solitaire in my mind while creating a new rule where the Jacks can “hang” other cards. But only the hangable ones. These would include 2, 3, 6 9. They did not include the 1, 4 (even though in this font it appears hangable - it isn’t in my mind) 5 and 7, while both technically hangable to a degree, is not so as they could slip with ease . 10, likewise, carries a zero that is hangable but that would require the remaining digit to fall, and there is no O in a deck of cards. The Ace, while hangable, would never require a hanging so the prospect is moot.
This is how I spent my time.
The body blooms until it bursts. The remainder is left with another name. Some sold on the basis of reserve, counted as useful to some others, and they get a new name, too. The remainder are called something else, useless as the memory that goes away.
This body corrupts itself. Calls other names in the dark. Stupid pigshit cumdump. Filthy swelled-tight shithole. Rosary pinpoint cockapple. The trunk is quite spacious.
The rupture of the blister the suture stasis made blank. The rocking noises, losing syllables, rupturing the rhythm making rhythm more relevant. This delicious transparency through poetic voice. The bodiless voice. It speaks like a harlot while I want to cut my hair.
I am growing it out.
The glucose guttersnipe: awoken bedside lines of the good stuff in my arm. It took a bit to come to, but was on my feet and talking to the people in the room. I ate a sandwich. I watched a movie. I made do. I made a bowl of food and ate the entire bowl of food. I checked the monitor and went to bed.
The body has not been kind as of late. The F key on my keyboard seems broke (too).
The last visage of torrent and time bleeds, bending my ear, and I can’t hear out of the left ear due to waxy buildup, which worries me as I sleep on my right side and sometimes do not hear the alarm.
I have a loud alarm.
I am soon to be hooked up to a machine that will cost me $3000 to repay if I do not return it to the doctors in 24-hours after attaching it to me, to monitor my daily blood pressure. This is due to the fact that I always get terribly nervous when getting my blood pressure taken (the sense that I feel my blood, as it pumps, bothers me to no end). There is always the suggestion I have high blood pressure and this is to confirm or deny this possibility. I imagine I will be able to return the machine on time. I would hate to be in debt over my blood pressure. That would probably aggravate the situation.
This is not a litany. This is a recompense. This is giving voice to a body, venting.
Too loose.
From jet-jissomed lips, let froth and function as properties of nuance and malaise. It’s bad news: covered in thorns and elbows, the trusted worker made liar funk dump; buttocks clenched between teeth of muscle and sheet; nostrils; sweat flowing; steaming ring shoving one side, the other falling away; bursting gurgle behind pressing backdrop; masterbating after three spurts between legs measured; cotton ringlet fingers flapping; spreading objects between thighs, purloined; folded under hollow snuffing the rotten milk in the fridge; belly rubbing tasted flesh, pointed and fat, fleshy folds pissing; brackish eyes of nibbling green; covering exposed pushing spittle; the floor gummed black and grey with gristle; dry white flesh bags; suffer the searing synaptic; jissom mixed with the ashes of youth; leaning back; pulling away; open; the tears that start when you talk about remembering; emerging from back; breath breathing; towards the toilet; arms raised; tumble down thigh and resemble reason; praying for world peace and not to die alone; drawing circles in creased jeans; a long fat forefinger and old bent thumb; the cloak they get through their day in; grinding neck exhaled into clenching hems and fist-turned ovals; the lies that drip out of these little births; blond hands rolling heavy snot-stained across frazzled fur; it sticks there; that only makes it mean; modeled with cellulite and a gangly frame; easy to manipulate and package and fuck; spitting phlegm and pulling away; the sac sized red tense; these hands find their own way; Monday; Tuesday; back back to share the sex; wiggled, wrangled, won; the scars show up, sometimes; everything is fair and true under the understood rules; genius the subtleties; alternatively a clenched fist; spattered and specked with long thick deep red gouges and gashes; I cry sometimes; tracking the cheap glitches; complaints about the struggling, the abuse of words torn wordless; slapped and tried to stick it to it; the pull of bruises in your balls; you don’t have to lie, you lie all the time, it isn’t lying any more; a tease; a safety; a warranty; a loss; a deeper red and blue and black and makes it hurt harder; angry degenerates into the frenzy; sucking off everything you were or had; bone so soft as to audibly bark; hot inside that fuck it like garbage; flashing body parts for slobs; to make it better; the serious series called calm failing; arms and fingers dropping scant droplets; can I touch it?; that squalors silent; that horrible lent over the hairless burden; hands into soldiers bubbling the shit rimmed seat; throbbing against the other eye; held forth, hence, rectal matter mustered and felt; everyone has a mom, some more than one; cancer lumps waiting to happen, to suck; identifying the ages extends the shock of the barely clothed; all sorts of sickness blubbers out; sloshed in and out; and in and out; one easily capable of forming an acutely new personality but continues in the same body; the professional with the crow’s feet; young enough to cry and scream ad be hurt; all so much better for having the experience; availability and desperation; the hurt worn frank and free and possibility of endlessness; slow and too clumsy; it retreats into itself as you lower your head to bite; as phony as respect; jerking, with fingers, and pointing with wetted upper lip; pulling at the membranes of sexual cluster; foot trampling, tickling glans; hurting by half, galvanizing the hero’s pulling; these are fiascos of regret and fashion and the other things that fall into memory; the bending of the dumb bitch bent; the head of youth, groaning, and squeezing into jeans; breath moistening throat; muscles making standing up possible; pressing hand over sniffling making spitting bright red blood pleasant; it’s like water anymore; the relative chances and dangers and mistakes; the low bare mattress and watched; the droop inside your skull; drilling their way out of their concrete holes; and you draw back clean; spitting and wetting it down and sizing it up and finding it fine for now; you fill the black hole; and it sucks you up; it just seemed to be too much work, that’s all; spill when you tool yourself; denial becomes untenable; desire becomes untenable; where are the cleansing crews?; easy answers for easier money; sliding down the spine; uncomfortable metal table held for a two day uncomfortable; the driver’s belt straightens out; cum or forget in my pocket; flipped through this magazine many times before; whose asshole was bigger; the dick photos you promised; the sick trussed up as body; only minutes after ripping him open; a sort of squint; I don’t like fucking; you said it; envisions every move you slink down into; the lapse; the corpse; the person we said we are and can’t ever be; we waited; undo your pants; the angry slug in the mirror reflects the he you never were; die a different way today;your stomach and around the back; sit up and notice what you got; opens violacious; arms grasping and quickly; scream at them, tell them he was raped; would you like someone else to do that?; the essence of essence is infinite and pointless; brain pumping, lungs half dead; the old zit pockets you intend to suck out, making scars come came; somewhere secluded though; and so it collapses and feels and expels.
And this, after a fashion, is why I spend my time thinking about Solitaire. To keep my mind off my body and the thoughts that my mind might conjure about my body.
I have found 8 to be the most aesthetically pleasing of numbers.
I think it may be because 8 is hangable any way you hang it.
