from: a day in the life of p.
a tenderloin on every table
sometimes, something, whatever - or both.
if I stop, if I stop now, I can't stop now.
something's hand writes with an imaginary utensil, held in blue slate fingers. the sheets are wet from numerous body fluids, grayish and gritty from months of abuse. the room is filled with an unknown film - a dead hero or heroine smell lingers in a mist about four feet from the floor.
dawn seeps through cracks disguised as darkness. p.'s eyes open, feeling more exhausted than when the rubbertooth protector was put in, that now lays in a pile a spittle.
more time had been lost than expected.
whatever focused through the haze to the ceiling. tears swelled as whatever talked to the ceiling.
only ten lies yesterday, only ten lies or maybe eleven if I am lucky today. should I shave my head or wear a wig? only ten lies yesterday, maybe only eleven today.
whatever sought some fetish for sexual gratification, but could neither fixate on a fantasy nor object, felt the body in grimy sheets was a different body than the one that sang holy consumption songs at the local universal come-one-come-all congregational church just sometime before. p. or whatever wasnÕt sure of what it was called-yesterday or today before the body shook in moments of regression and tongue talking euphonies. "do what the voices say," was always a part of the services. was this a different body or a different voice, a left turn signal gone bad, a frozen garden, a chill that won't leave the soul?
p. rose, sitting up, gagging on particles lodged in the throat, spitting the unchewed remnants against the wall, watching this ooze walk down the surface as a slug would with a purpose or on a journey to some stale beer container, falling into undefined items around the bed.
another day where the death toll would rise for souls that had been crushed in assigned mythological reenactments. most would wander the street unaware of their lines, searching for old news clippings. some wore cast iron caps and aluminum foil on their genitals to protect themselves from probing electrodes.
choosing a time from the numerous clocks, knowing anytime was true and corrupt at the same time, p. would outfit the body in a suitable fashion. one that worked well in trench warfare and advancement consideration.
something would sing trying to create a rhythm for the day.
a chant, a incantation, a mantra to an onslaught of time machines, over drawn paper and telephone calls to those never seen.
p. would find solace when speaking to those that could neither hear nor speak.
walking down the cement hallway, passing deserted personas, mud soaked comics books and faded greenness that protruded through the cement, like rape on a sunday afternoon.
counting the countries that had appeared and disappeared from the map of that year.