"China is severing the arms of their future Gods." He brandished out images of mythology books and statuettes. The girl winced up, paused on her atlas and squinted. Like old video footage, ideas flourished, rolling through his mind and stopped at his mouth. His reverie was floating the Ganges past fantastic towering pillars of village steeples.
Each of his exhalations were being inhaled by the partner in front of him as if she imagined sharing a lung, a respirator of short lived oxygen, a vacuum air bag, a thin expanding tissue unable to whisper into for its tenderness, yet somehow transferred messages. Their eyes locked, for a moment, together in trance.
"What do you mean?" Her lip twitched bombastic.
As he turned and looked for a smoke, the chimera capsule broke and her mouth spilled over a canvass sail.
Returning his attention to the headlines, he shot off a rhetorical left mallard, “Why do Hindu Gods have four arms?!? Ha! Harder to crucify!”
Cognizance shifted to her self care plan which consisted of a manicure.
Reduced to a metaphorical mugwump the man sulked into the black ink.
The rooms’ airs were stale. The table was cluttered. The chess game was, as always, set upon the checkered board, left unused since her last check-mate.
Without looking up from her digits, he thought he heard her say, "Do you suppose African Cichlids recognize each other?"
The response came from the opposing side of the Life section, "And the reason has more to do with ears"
The simple decorations to the room were null. A cat jumped onto the couch.
He was back to his reading again. Summarizing the story to one paragraph then extracting the thesis and once more arranging the words to create a new headline.
"Ivy league students are using themselves as cadavers."
"What a cut up." Tap-scuff-scuff-rasp.
"Girls want to learn about their bodies, boys do too... Dr. Female wants to limit the mobility of the male anatomy"
"It'll hurt you."
"Dr. Male is still talking about the lesbians he fucked and is still amazed at words like coccyx and condom.” There was a pregnant pause. “Sperm is not wine, it gets worse with age"
"Shoot yourself in the head."
"You don't really care do you?"
His eyes searched the apartment. He poured a cup of coffee and foolishly moved to staring at the fashionable cardboard advertisement of cereal boxes. As his thoughts increased in random vitality, his posture regained its retraction and he inhaled deeply.
"So this is how you would like to begin today?"
"Not particularly", she expressed while pulling the brown and yellow fronds that had withered.
"The day has already begun", she decided from the pantry, "and it's going to be a long one".
He felt his shoulders slide into depression. "Fuck slides", he thought out loud. "What point do they serve now? Really? We can't do this anymore."
He felt a cool menthol cloud against his cheek as she exhaled.
The room opened up a little more.
The corrugator’s muscles relaxed into his face and his eyelids enlarged. He took a deep breath and retrieved a pen from the breast pocket of the jacket slung over the back of the chair.
"Would you like some more wine?” she raised a brow as she stepped away from the ice box.
"Are we drinking wine?” he was absently scribbling thoughts into a miniature notepad.
"Of course." She poured him another drink.
Every time this was said he had been speeding around his head waiting for the end of the race she was chasing for a future of linens and terry cloth.
A cars brakes squealed outside in the autumn streets.
As her toast popped. She turned the oven burner to medium and lit a cigarette.
He held his pen midair for a moment watching its wobbly illusion. His habit of nipping the superficial tissue of his cheek with incisors returned. He was thinking he couldn't believe all morning the porch light had been on sucking electricity through its cables, whirring subtle buzz frequencies through skulls and no one thought to turn it off.
"You shut me out again last night.” She pouted.
"Hm?"
"You locked the door"
He remembered stumbling into the small apartment and believing she was already asleep on the couch. Her lips quivered as he bent down to kiss her forehead.
"Where did I place the key?"
"You've lost it.?."
His hands never touched his pockets. Outstretched fingers sidled braiding loose cushion threads. Coolness swept his presence like something better to do. His hands never even came close to his sides. A coaster was placed on the end table before the orange juice.
“Do you have a light?”
He patted his t-shirt frocked chest and reached for the hotel matches next to the frosted glass ashtray. Swish and fizzle the stick ignited with a back draft flicker.
“It’s superstition”, she began sometime “someone must be thinking about me.” She exhaled a mid capacity cloud burst into the ceiling fan.
As if to the air, "Do you have a match?"
She noticed he had been fishing around in his pockets for cigarettes and a lighter so she pointed to the ancient box of strike anywhere. Taking a moment to gather his words he stared at the tiny cherry wood container. A crafty mermaid lady for the local thrill shop had materialized it while bored and replaying her answering service messages over the speaker phone of her cell.
He read back to himself the words he had penned. He spoke aloud to the empty room. "It was like a conversation, only a series of prearranged questions with memorized answers to powerfully display an idea that you had been relatively working with before it dissipated from your awareness." Hand clasped hand and he leaned back in the chair stretching his shoulders. He chuckled at the way she used to say “rhombies“. He picked up his pen again. She vanished from memory.
In the bathroom, unsure she extracted the suds from the cabinet and poured into a dish 30 ML of bubble formula then rested the spoon against the smooth lip surface. Leaning the flat of her scapula into the cool tiled wall angle, inhaling deep into her abdomen tilting her head and relaxing into the upper trap muscle of her left shoulder she glided the solid crease back and forth.
The knob of the faucet, three parts porcelain and one part shiny brass. Tugging downward she initiated the flow of liquids while draining the dish of its contents. Refreshing her face, steam fell upwards floating into her skin.
Her spine was a ribbon of beads chiming electrical impulses up her vertebra retracting her shoulders and releasing a clasp about her chest. The pillory: a seizing pressure constricting her solar plexus tightening her serrate against her sides and limiting her breathing capability.
Drifting onto the toilet bowl she slid her feet out and slouched her back onto the commode. She retrieved the glass piece from the counter top, struck a match and lit a scented candle. Bringing the flaming wood into her forward vision she inhaled the smoke of herbals then rested the charred stick on the lip edge of the dish.
Drifting onto the toilet bowl she slid her feet out and slouched her back onto the commode. She retrieved the glass piece from the counter top, struck a match and lit a scented candle. Bringing the flaming wood into her forward vision she inhaled the smoke of herbals then rested the charred stick on the lip edge of the dish.
Her thumb set in opposition she imagined the clouds as they eased her endocrine system - release - repositioning her thumb, she exhaled the mental toxins that had been stimulating a fear, penetrating a discontent, palpating an emotion.
Dipping her elongated digits into the glass candy dish she removed two jelly spheres. Rolling the oil filled balls in her fingertips she reflected orbital pictures, micro sized snap shots, delicate portraits of simple hours spent.
One leg extended. She kindled her sullied limbs, easing further into the water. Her earlobes touched, barely breaking surface. Jazzy subvexing rose from the street corner café. She imagined herself macerating as she lay bridled by the gentle slopes of the tub.
“Bridled, bridle... bride...bridge.…“ she was searching for the right combination of word association to justify her intent to continue with The Plans. “Another three years and a fourth to rejuvenate…”
Her vision set upon sparkle of the knobs. Reflections of images, snap-shots momentarily captured. Kodak memories documenting the rhyme of ubiquitous knowledge gained during matrimony.
Drips fell gaining speed and sound plinking the ripple, tickling her nose. The patio people reeling to Fitzgerald chinked glasses and forks, plates and knives. She drowned them all with a glub to her utricle. Her eyes gazed into the abyss of light with endless depth till her retinas burned bright and reflections were made of nostalgic remnants, closing her lids to faded sepia visions that will be, when it arrives, another neon fantasy till it is repositioned between two corner clasps in the photo journal.
She let the water cascade down her body as she watched the smooth surface of the mirror mimic the motion of her being, the only full action video reflected in absolute time. The remaining pieces were pages to the script she had been creating in her spare time with bubbles and oils, water and music.….
She greeted the finger-like projection as a valet or personal sever midwife maid non-the less “hook” containing her terry-cloth reward. She stepped to the balcony and felt the air wrap around her skin, the only acknowledgement that she existed to herself. The reality that there was a nature greater than ideal, which has presented her persona, hung from the thin air that would be as transparently visible as the veil which shrouded her pale skin.
“Too much, too soon, too fast,” she mulled, “too much you and this was me, you said you would and now I did, you didn't, I do - I do.” She repositioned the piece and inhaled the clouds.
The sounds faded and the street lamps hung by their cables. She sat in the papasan cushioning.
The existence of her reality with touch evoked the nervous anger to other areas in her body. Resting her temporalis against the rail like a burnt match head to a spoon handle the coolness flushed her cheeks.
She stared down into streets and remembered the greatest lines from her previous scripts.
She could have made more sense about the issue in hand. The hero watched as she would tap her pen upon her opposing hand’s index finger and bury her chin into her chest pouting, emoting the sorrow of her confused passion for a passing family member.
"Your ugly is showing"
"Bag it into a fashion and we'll market it tomorrow, your an asshole" There was really no point in debating anything beyond a solid scope of tunnel vision. She honed in on a cell of her cuticle fragmenting her finger nail like a soiled diaper whilst never discontinuing the motion of the silver clicker stick.
She was never a lip bitter. Her attitude was good for shit but over all she made her presence, attempting to harness the energy of a group. She was a bitch pitching sticker pinch and the sweetest girl you would ever meet naturally.
The distance behind her was like a rolling canvass of wall paper, pique in design,
slow moving lugubrious with dragging weight of tundra.
slow moving lugubrious with dragging weight of tundra.
“It was my special day but I had had enough of business to instead go home and give the dog a good round about drop to the skull, before popping aspirin and dunking my head into the aquarium.” -Tap-Tap-Tap- “Fish do kiss, these have been with me for years they all took their own time to approach my submerged head” -Tap-Tap-tap- “There is still a gup and two suckers that keep their distance most of the time.” -Tap-tap-tap-
The honest opinion of my associates decreased as our tolerance for each other’s rows and disagreements accelerated during our daily doses. We however agreed it was the flickering disapproval that ignited controversy in our souls, spirits, emotions, passion, beliefs, religions, blah, blah, and blah, blah. -tap-tap-tap- The points were not narrowed to the simple topics highlighted and bold print. We had cut deeper to an artery that was foreign to other beasts of psyche we had dissected. We were materializing the somatome structure imitating the texture and action of its soft tissues three weeks later. Marcel set up a print shop and set off the copies for publication
Still tapping her pen anticipating the change of the weather, I assumed she would bring it up later after our evening dose and blanket hours. She always had issues with selling out. It was something she had heard of from a friend who read with extra speed ability and in spare time would utilize his awareness in hard bound text preserved for expired idols therapy.
“Selling out was something bad basically to her.” In society though there was hardly any negative talk or rather words defined as negative.
“The debate between a dichotomy of good and evil was faded worse than the collection of literature strewn among cardboard shelves.
“Her fellow was musking into his olfactory worm…
“The spirit of "is" defined most things and once they began to discover the "is" they moved for-word.” Not everyone chose the same path and most of them have altered directions. I remember window rock.
“Somehow Mr. He stuck into my glue and I dreamed about the Indian boy.
I dunked my head into the tank to prevent this, that was when I introduced the theory of did.”
I dunked my head into the tank to prevent this, that was when I introduced the theory of did.”
Oh yes, "did" was a pleasant precursor to neds "because", by the way. This didn't last too long...it just wasn't "was".
We eventually assembled our group of beliefs under spare time.
Marcel was there all of the time he owned the print shop, as long as he was responsible with the necessities anything else was free publication to under cost reimbursement.
Feather came and went. She was a muse and like most muses shackled to the bemused agony of a tortured artistic soul. Her spare time existed in lapses of disciplining time when she had to leave for a section of codes.
Before he was allowed to be resubmitted into his program of creation, Tish Issue mumbled most of his thoughts into the conversation from beneath the desk where he installed a tap light and a book wire. He was nuts to most everyone except when it was his day with Feather and she would bring blanket time to him with a fort--- escape.
Conner was hardly around slipping in during the night session to discuss the powerful sources of the darkness he was Templeton-shutter-button to most people in the connection. We hardly made mention to his work. It was always elaborate and when faced with time consumption we were satisfied with a brief synopsis to stimulate our aggressive suds orally. Every ones teeth got a little grit when the sun fell down and Conner tramped in.
In confidentiality of the circuit it is imperative to not disclose too much information now. After all simulating a life is not as easy as creating an entity.
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