mordicai caeli (mordicai) wrote,
mordicai caeli
mordicai
  • Mood: sick & wet.
  • Music: crown me king- birthing
today i'm awfully dissapointed in my failure to follow the advice from the hitchhikers guide to the galaxy. i mean, all through high school & college i lugged that towel around with me, thick & thin, but where is it today? today when i need it! the firmament has cracked! i predicted as much yesterday, did i not? i did! & here i am without a towel. i'm ashamed! on top of that, i'm losing my voice? or have some kind of horrendous throat problem. do you get a sore throat when you have laryngitis? i don't know what i going on with this; a mess! everyone i talk to on the phone things i'm a dick because i'm so clipped, but they are the ones who are dicks! so now i'm just puttering around the store, a prickly pear in my mouth. fuck this shit; fuck getting sick. i was coughing up rainbow hues & wriggling white mollusks all morning in the shower; how is that for a pretty picture, picasso? soft translucent shells gooey with black phlem, scuttling along the porcelin to the drain. you fucking parasites! & of course the store is flooded from the rain, so i'm a bilge rat on top of everything. maybe i will cough up one of these gross marine insects living in the damp sacks of my lungs & let them take up residence in the secret river of methane that flows below this part of brooklyn. i'll infect the world, patient zero mordicai.

i think the things have a seriously fucked up life cycle. they are fungal at first, spores choking & clogging, spinning mycelium spiderwebs all up & down the cavities of my body; turning my stomach sour, my lungs loamy, the hollows of my bones brittle & heavy. then the bloom, grow laden with fruit; heavy fleshy egg clusters, covered in motile little cillia. hooks to dig in, to twist (the nautilus in a ship, twisting) into the soft parts within me. from there it is a matter of diverting blood vessels till their enmeshed in black & blue, thick with bruises. from there they just swell up into boils, leisons dotting all over my guts like bubbles in swiss cheese. waiting to slip free of their skin, to needle-on-a-record scratch across my pharynx, or tear reckless through my bowels. to just plop out one morning, vomited forth, & scuttle away down the drain.

& then wait.
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