Thu, 19 May 2005

poisine
You wear the milk-blood, you carry the bowl beneath your mouth, you rap your rings against the bottom of the bowl and a poisoned sine wave seeps out into our ears. They bring them in to take off their clothes. The guests wear suits of deep velvet which absorbs sound, so as to be silent during movement. Once they were bomber pilots, action at a distance, an oil-smell to them like they were packed away in crates in some cellar after the war and reassembled for the dinner. This would explain the gaps in their consciousness, the short moments of glassy-eyed stillness between sentences, a reduction of all unnecessary motion, so that when they were no longer directly spoken to they would shut down, slump into the chairs. The light must be upon me at all times. Without the light I am prone to attack by shadows. I am paying you to keep that light on me without even a moment’s rest. Oh but i’d tongue-taste it, on the skin, on the very walls where moisture sought escape, carriend inside and your breath has left you your breath has left you you stink of the new death push at the wall and the wall will give way, the thinnest of sheetrock crumbling beneath the hands, behind which identical rooms hide, the contents mirroring those of your room, wax bodies taking your places with the eyes carved away. Heaven Christ, open your skin to me.
(12:13.05.19.2005) [/ana] #