Bored Corinthian

There’s this fricative lately when I wake up, which is a kind of sound you can hear in, say an unvoiced “F” or the voiced “T-H” sound like in “Fuck This”, only this one is more like the voiced “V” sound like in “Volatile”.

It’s like:

A rushing of air passing between every cell in my body vibrating at incredible frequencies but I’m numb to the excitement of the atoms in my skin, which is alive and shifting tectonically all over my body and now my hands, the skin that was my hands is on my back in the shape of a back but still hands which cannot reach nor grab nor hold, my face is in my knees smiling wildly into recession, or frowning, I’m not sure anymore, I’ve got bad knees, my feet are up by my elbows now so I don’t get out much anymore and my lips grip my sides which shake uncontrollably when I laugh, my neck is a mess of thigh meat and nipples and the hair on my head came from my toes. I’ve transitioned from a person back into a meat man, from the meat dimension, which is a real thing, you can look it up, many heroes derive their power from the meat dimension as I do now. Mental clarity, the thing you want least of all from a sausage. Yes, the moment when you wake up in a heat stroke with eyes closed because they’re teeth now and you know what you have to do, eat eyes, smell ears, listen to fingers, see noses and feel yourself mouthing off ad infinitum to the infinite about love, guns and roses.

It’s over, tours gone up state and downstream is the little piss flick you took out from Blockbuster but can never return, it’s been boarded up, sold and made into an Applebees they say our generation destroyed. It’s a blame game and there’s a deadpool with your name on it at the top of the list and the big rich money quick scheme got me figuring on dying but they don’t pay up like they used to so it’s a bum pot they season with old stew in a tin can they got off the back of a food 4 less truck nearest you. The real surprise comes when there’s no one left in a hundred years or so and we all find out our futures were sold on a bill of goods for short term leases, our children will wake up some day, realize what leftovers are left for dinner, make a quick meal of each other and be back in bed by 9pm, post-mortem time. Yes, The heat death blues of the universe comes for us all on Sunday, when god rests, leaves the gas on and finds he’s burned the quiche again, not just burned, charred, it’s pure carbon now, pitch black and turns to dust and ash if touched, it’s almost impressive how he’s managed to fuck a quiche this bad- don’t be silly, god’s a dude, a woman could never be so irresponsible with a quiche, it’s possible with such vast powers, he could grow up, get a job and take some responsibility for creation but he’s been gone a long time, out on the lam for kinking up water hoses for thrills, burning ants with magnifying lenses for EZ assists and kills, and playing ding dong ditch long into the night, but no one comes to the door anymore we all know the joke, the jig is up, so the big bad bag of flaming dog shit will burn our house down with everyone in it, and all we had to do was answer the door and stomp it out, but who wants dog shit all over the floor?

View story at Medium.com

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