Nightmareily through the night does ol’ Ylang-ylangy go. Out to snatch a body or two… but… my stone? ah, there. Lifted out the ol’ Jesuit boneyard where mOther and father are boxed and ready to go.
Daddy-mummy-me: o how that gawdawful triangulation pinpoints every fear, every love, every pain, every joy, every sickness. I am the holy trinity; I, the trilateral man: father, son and Holy Ghost – not an existential ant, but, a trigonal fly. Nastish, selfy, bloated… dead as dead as dead.
There are worms burrowing through my skin, eating away at the soft bits making me thin. The brain, where the world slows, begins and ends and is equalized and pulverized and eaten, is itself food for thought – a delicacy on that score. Thinking is where the world gets eaten and thought is gradually consumed by thought, but, it is not nourished. Thought is fat and hungry in equal measure. Thought is a feast of holes.
I cre… cre… cre… ate my words. Words are worms, the byproduct of a ruined world. Words are worms, the overripe fruit of forces.
Look how skinny this room is. Jan must have shaved the meat off its bones. Overfed, stuffed, roomy old room, the room I was born in, has lost some weight in the thinking of it and gained nothing in the saying of it. Roooooooom. One and all infected this world with thinking and thinking infected by this world. Cancerized and sodomized this peaceful machine.
Where’s my Ylang-ylangy? Out to snatch a body or two. Funny, gone the wrong way up Princess street. Graveyard’s up the other way. Shifty little Janny-jan gone pubwise. Told me once he lost himself in the mirror, lost in the skuggwa of his own face – couldn’t connect his thinking to his thinking of his thinking of his face. I tells ‘im, I tells ‘im, “realize you did, you don’t belong ‘ere.” He says he knew it all along… all andlang… all Ylangy-jan.
Jan, gadding about all amongst the half naked half dead stinko stigmatics, will come a- lah-lahing back all off his pannikin; come a-galumphin and a-galambolin he will, loud enough to wake the rotting with his stale ol’ breath a-singing and a-songing. I’m doooooooomed. Yet, despite Jan’s rumbled tumbled drunkery, I rarely land on those shores of nod these day. Words scratching behind the ears. O how this perpetual dream never lets me sleep. A perpetual nightmare.
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