i'm just trying to keep my head down, covered in my foxhole. oh fucking today. i'm on the nod (call me cain). did my part for the untouchables today, playing with the bones of adolescents, fumbling sleepy fingers along ephyises. hello bones of the skeleton. hello that dull throb of the dead. i gotta keep anchored in the cage of the heart- today is a spindling day for alienism. i'm okay you're not okay i'm not okay your not okay. look at the rambles split the sky like flocks of geese. oh you fucking geese. black & grey & dreary as ghosts. today's so hollow that there is nothing to say about it. lather, rinse, repeat.
the thing about all this hate today is that it is so cartoon.
here we go, caught in the harpies clutches, candles behind our heads revealing the dark blots of swarming matter. look at that lingering plural, me & all the me's, all the ruminations of psychomachia strung out end to end like mating beetles. look at the shadow swarming with maggots, the maggot-eaten shadow, the fish-belly pale moon & the moon the color of a fish's belly. i mean, look at the egg-shell color of the look at the swirl of ink the glistening of the oil slick the black of the harbinger's pea coat & the wholesomeness of the grain, look at the collapse of sound there at the end of the ellipses.
my impression of implosion. because even black wholes don't leave me impressed.
here we are sitting on the edge of this god-damnned abyss i call myself. look at me stand here monolithic in silhoutte. i could swallow you up without growing less empty. my middle fucking name is corbomite manuver. my middle fucking name is james bond must die. though today it seem like my middle fucking name is echolalia, is thought disorder. because putting one proverbial foot in front of the other is getting me nowhere, or several diffrent places all at once. one pro-verbal foot in front of the other. one psalms foot in front of the other. my middle fucking name is.
i was talking about psychomachia (but i kinda meant titanomachia too).
so here, we draw it from the ocean. we pull it out, scraping its carapace across the sharp rocks of the cliff where we are squatting. our hands move like pistons, drawing the silk rope & its steel hook up, along with our quarry. the rhythm is intoxicating, but the lactic acid built up by the time the thing comes to the outcropping makes us sluggish.
we both draw, but we are too slow. the thing moves faster than the book said- but that is one of the unfortunate side-effects of using rakeesh's tomes as your primary source materials for research. pay-while-you-browse is a shady policy for any library, even an occult one. so our hands are sitting there full of guns, when the exoskeleton cracks open & the hooked tentacles slither out.
or to put it another way: HOLY SHIT THAT THINGS FROM OUTERSPACE!
by now our guns are roaring in our hands; hell, i'm dropping my hand so fast to compensate for the recoil that i look like some hungry hindu god. so while our irons are mantra-ing with a "bang-bang-bang," this thing just sort of ripples up the bank towards us, & the next thing you know, sally hecate is more like sally pate, a spread of meat on the stone. at this point, i'm getting a little distressed that the teflon coated copkillers havn't shreded this thing by now.
the next couple of rounds in my gun are home-made. i call 'em pharsee rounds, but whatley (he's the hairy one laying hexes down with his free hand) calls 'em something with alot of gutteral noises & the other guys call 'em arson rounds. either way the next three bullets start toasting the thing with white phosphorus. that seems to get its attention; it turns around like its got some crazy internal gyroscope (& i'm thinking "uh, is this the thing or its fucking spaceship?") & starts that creepy wavey movement over towards me.
this is where things get screwy, 'cause i drop my skin.
turns out, i'm an alien after all, & your whole planet is fucked.