so these hollow threats of beauracracy have subsided. i don't know if i'm the ocean or the rocks, but i'm sure a shoreline metaphor lurks. though by lurking, i guess that makes the metaphor the monster. hey crown me king feat. peter benchly- "the metaphor." or feat. john williams or whomever he ripped the jaws music offa. offa like hoffa, like gangster, like dutch schultz's dying string of babble. let me go out like someone trapped in a cavern, says me.
so i guess i don't know what to do with myself when my girlfriend isn't around all the time.
i guess subway commutes mean i read some. i guess lethem named that archbuilder "lonely dumptruck" & if he had ran with that clever convention he coulda stole the mink stole. nick hornby knows about boys & amanda fillapachi knows about pedophillia. harlan ellison knows about trouble & boondocks well they is. i finally read that english as a second f*cking language booklet, & i browse on through all kinds of other sheaves, the paper like curtains shrouding me. who is that masked villian with his nose in a book? fuad mohandus maybe? maybe its absolom grundy, son of soloman grundy & maybe he owns the secret of the corn fields. because damn, corn fields do have secrets. all those lonely mazes.
let me see the hollow of the clavicle.
the barren humours of your bioalchemy.
divided by peristalsis, you dwell in silence,
organless, without heart or liver or kidney,
a thing of mantle & hyaline,
psuedocorporeal, with a 20% miss chance (10% with magic weapons).
choke on my dnd poem you old fucking fossil. literature is for those enslaved to oral tradition. to punctuation insisting on rhythem. to those without cryptography in their blood. this is the millenium that things change, that the hammer & tongs of science (the restriction enzymes, the tampering virus) change what it means to linger in meat. & i'm already one step ahead of the game.
so here i am with cracked leather holsters & the holsters are called THE BELT OF THE EYE. the moon is eclipsing the eye on the buckle, but the guns sit there, hanging with that tilt, a tilt like the precession of the world. a tilt where their northstar is the palm of my hands.
the gun in the left holster is THE NINE HEADED DRAGON. it is a custom job, a revolver with a wide bore & nine gaping chambers. when i say chambers i mean oublitte, i mean gaol, i mean labyrinth & maze. THE NINE HEADED DRAGON represents the occult, the guns of the obscure, & it is loaded with silver bullets.
hanging in the right holster is MEGASCALE ENGINEERING. there is no contrast to the other gun; it is nonetheless diffrent. chambers rotate but only for the gas compression to slam some liquid nitrogen into it; the magnetic coils don't heat up, superconducters that they are. its the barrel; mostly frictionless, the rifling is still there, still grabbing purchase.
still grabbing purchase.
the average heart is the size of a fist. see these fists, these scissors of fingers curled into whorls? i've got a pair of black hearts; i make fiends fucking blush. blush black with all the vitrol & poison in their veins knowing it'll never stand up to a thimbleful of my vitae. tap these veins for instant death. xxx, i'm as sexy as the bottle of liquor the white witch begged you not to drink. glug glug glug you drinky crow motherfucker, here is seven dollars with which to purchase a gun. ka-pow.