so i've been reading a bit of theodore sturgeon lately. its bliss to read about the hive mind, the self of other. man, more than human had such themes of belonging & lonesomeness? the tragedy of amputation? its a hell of a pulp pleasure. but you know how my knees buckle when i start thinking about the way it used to be. about being a thing greater than myself. to marry medusa took a few good swings at making me homesick, but wasn't nearly as effective. i don't care about the lives of ordinary people. i just don't give a bit of a fuck. other than that i've been reading hellboy & dnd books, & before that it was raymond chandler. & & &, those jormungdir serpent ampersands. or fuck, instead its these john henry stokes. see the tracers as he raises his hammer & brings it down on the railroad spike. john henry beat the machine, but his heart broke doing it.
back to drinking out of these small blue porcelin cups, this time filled up to the rim with espesso. steam curls off of it with ghostlike fingers, reaching towards the ceiling like a bank teller. my head's half paper waspnests thin; the other half is just the shoal. royal jelly replaces glial cells. i want to unzip the sutures of my skull & let them swarm over trays filled with ink, let them draw alien geographies on windows as they look for escape. thus emptied, this spider's body of mine could get to the bussiness of the Wild Hunt, unleashing havoc on all the unreachable places of the world. how safe is your fallout shelter now? how remote is your grave, rasputin?