When the lights go out, we leave our cold dwellings and roam the slippery, damp darkness in search of electricity. On the second day, our heads turn black, our skulls soften and fill with translucent, sweet nectar that oozes from the cuts we accidentally make while shaving blindly and freezes into intricate shapes like icicles or wax stains on old candles. The mouths we gape to express our hunger open in the most unexpected, anatomically inappropriate places and snap with their many glass teeth, ripping the frost apart and tearing the rags our clothes have become over the winter. Our thoughts become blurred and dissipate like steam over a vat of bubbling liquid, where our permanent rage and bloodthirsty hatred boil without end. Our children hoot in their bottomless, icy cradles with a terrible whooping cough, through which, if you listen closely enough, you can discern the first word that steals their silence. "Illustricity! Illictricity!" our mindless children cry with eerie clarity, clawing with their gnarled, bony fingers at the sleety cast iron of the radiators. Our Dalmatian dogs howl longingly, their bloody muzzles raised towards the moon blurred by the winter fog, their mournful wailing cutting through the surrounding darkness for miles around like air-raid alarms or the many-voiced howls of a blizzard.

Our women swell and shrink in the manner of egg whites in boiling water, trying to reduce their heat output and increase their energy capacity, reaching the shape of a ball or a cube, and hide in the corners of their miserable homes waiting for their husbands. When they finally return, carrying nothing but the unbearable stench of diesel fumes and incoherent curses in their horrible beaks instead of their nourishing prey, the wives express their frustration by shrieking and pouncing on their husbands like harpies, tearing their swollen faces to the bone to reach their eyes, long since shrunken and covered with a white film like birds' eyelids. Some of the men have bone-anchored headlamps that glow in their foreheads like the illitia of deep-sea anglerfish, but their feeble light is enough only to thicken the otherworldly darkness in the corners rather than dispel it from their dens for good.

Ravenous corpses wriggle in their graves, digging long, winding tunnels into the frozen ground with the tenacity of soulless machines, and eventually dig themselves out on garbage dumps and wastelands. Indistinguishable in the darkness from the city's inhabitants, they join the crowds that fill the streets, drifting mindlessly to the sweet sound of car engines. People flock to the generators like predators, closing around them in silent, tight rings and standing for hours, blissfully squinting their sightless eyes, reveling in the bass vibrations of the fuel hearts, swaying slightly and only occasionally breaking the silence with barely audible sounds that have long since replaced speech: coughs, grunts, creaks, short groans and sobs. People's sensitive nostrils flare, sniffing out the ozone traces of electricity in the clouds of exhaust.

To prevent any attempt on their lives, each generator is guarded by an armed detachment of a special security force, the Electro-Patrol. Its members stand out from the crowd by the oil sheen of their black gutta-percha uniforms, which are tight just enough to display their strength and courage. However, on particularly cold, weatherless evenings, when the excitement on the streets is at its highest, even the valiant Electropatrolmen have to contend with panic. It shows in the way they shift nervously from foot to foot, in the anxious glances they exchange during smoke breaks with their impenetrable latex masks rolled up, and in the assault rifles that tremble impatiently against their broad chests to the beat of their burning hearts. On the southern outskirts, they say, the heat of passion recently reached such heights that in the morning all that was found in the place of a large industrial generator was a pile of mangled metal scraps, and all the pavement around it was stained with hardened black tar spots like those left by burnt tyres, and only the boldest would speculate on the fate of the Electropatrolmen who had left these sinister traces.

Guided more by fear than a sense of duty, the authorities, who have lost faith in the strength of their bunker walls, contact the emergency services and make a desperate joint effort to breathe new life into the infrastructure. But now it is too late: the toppled pylons of power lines lie in the snow-covered fields like giant skeletons of prehistoric creatures, the remnants of high-voltage cables lie blackened in the drifts like abandoned snake crawlers, the steel doors of substations have been torn apart, their doorways gape into gloomy emptiness, the torn bellies of switchboards ooze cable piles of untidy electrobowels. Only a few miraculously surviving transformers in the central districts respond to attempts to infuse galvanic blood into the city's veins with hysterical outbursts of sparks, crackles, pops, explosions, and finally tall, jolly torches of blindingly bright flame, like effigies on a British Guy Fawkes night, and it takes many a night to put out the fires, after which the almost awakened city sinks back into its magnificent grave hibernation.

/Feb '23

lost somewhere in complex intestines of maintenance passages claustrophobic blind halls metal corridors in the dim blinking light of industrial lamps in soft whirr of huge fans venting the facility round the clock we’re trespassing aimlessly just cos we can

vandalism is my religion since transformation is sacrilege so i don’t shy away from breaking stuff on the way thick transparent shells of the lamps crack like skulls when they shatter and the following darkness shines down with a brief relief

we’re both pretty worn down by an indefinite amount of hours spent together in that inevitable cycle of mutual consumption

it is tired and sated a bit battered by the merciless usage yet so safe and full it’s basically non-existent apart from the beast that takes us deeper into the rusty guts of a chemical plant he’s proficient enough at trespassing to avoid the workers with perfect discretion although there are few because most are machines which seem just as battered as we are judging by the smell of mold and acidic taste the air leaves on the tongue yet the plant lives breathes regurgitates raw materials into rainbow vomit for further processing boiling down distilling refining splitting and sorting into all kinds of tubes and vials in production facilities everything is bright lit and so shiny due to glass and plastic it feels like christmas it’s blinding annoying driving us back into shadows where we stick to each other quite literally missing the ability to merge together completely

there’s a passing moment brief memory of a tiny storeroom crowded with crates full of spare parts for the machines with an icy cold floor tiled walls where i shove him onto one of the crates and blow him once more deeply slowly carefully too cos by now his cock is almost as sore as my lips and my tongue or my throat and my jaws and the back of my neck and it takes a while to finish what i started because the process has been essentially exhausted and has lost its initial purpose which doesn’t make him less abashed mainly by my desire to go on which exceeds my physical capabilities but also baffled by my rudeness as well that is precious and sweet almost innocent no less the way he sits there completely still and tries to keep quiet so there’s hardly any noise aside from our heavy breathing and the soft distant buzz of machinery and the way his fingers twitch in my hair but don’t push is worth the effort although in general i’m doing it just to show that i still can and he doesn’t mind at all kisses me cautiously mixing the taste of his cum in my mouth with the irony savour of his own blood due to bite marks on his lips and his tongue that got chewn by my bestial teeth in the previous fuck session which took place on the scratchy sunset-lit surface of a warehouse roof some time prior when he twisted me in all sorts of angles to reach my mouth and force it open so he could keep tongue-kissing me in the process guess he liked the taste of my moans as they broke into yelps in response to his shoves until the thrill made me clench my teeth unwillingly or maybe not so unwillingly guess i like the taste of his blood way too much to prevent myself

oh well must have been pretty tired if i failed to bite it off for good so he might consider it getting off lightly this time pun intended

it is extremely peaceful so much that the whole storeroom falls completely out of time turning into an abstract symbol of a shared safespace it is a weird state that i find hard to cope with feeling lost for eternity cos that is too close close enough to make me talk about sensitive stuff like Rider and the way he managed to avoid the role of another bad guy in the row of bad guys i’ve been tempered by it is weird cos the topic’s too dangerous overly personal coated in my good old ptsd yet the choice of time and space provides enough safety to balance it out or maybe the stress just escapes my attention which is basically absent at this point if not negative at all and i immediately switch to asking whether attention can be negative sending his pitiful scientific mind into a logical loop that is funny to watch especially with those lifetime straight A students who actually like to get to the bottom of things and take paradoxical situations too seriously at last he comes to the conclusion that it may be negative theoretically and i can’t hold back from a mean allegation that considering his love for things theoretical no wonder all his dream partners have remained theoretical as well up till now but instead of getting insulted he just faintly smirks and says true i even jerk off theoretically so there’s been no need to resort to practice ever and it doesn’t surprise me much it would seem the only thing he bothers with practicing without any external prompt is substances controlled and not so much

it’s not surprising really as same as how visibly he relaxes upon getting into places such as this confined like coffins windowless stuffy filled with electric graveyard light with rare inclusions of ultraviolet lamps as a ridiculous surrogate of the sun constant purr of the fans heaters coolers heavy machinery endless plexuses of hallways narrow corridors tiny cabins to crawl into after the curfew as that is his native habitat the one i happened to submerge into a few years ago and i can hardly imagine how it must have felt for him from the beginning must be somewhat like that oldschool snake game having to fit all the miles of his antimatter presence into those noose-tight compartments without interlacing his own traces to avoid getting locked in a loop he barely speaks of his past in scarce detail when does but those crumbles i’ve picked up so far allow to suggest that it was a very different kind of personal hell than my own or anyone else’s that i’m aware of a monotonous ornament of callousness decorating the inevitable noose the legacy of his dad and his mother’s purely scientific interest with no heart strings attached for the short while it lasted

(last time Rider caught me stalking him near the gun shop he frequents unable to overcome the attraction to his main area of expertise he told me he is no longer able to tell if i’m fine simply by my looks said it was good because the less readable i become the less remains in common to drag me down truth be told from the beginning nothing hurt more than his sad sincerity and open inability to neglect this self-defeating desire to roll back to make us stay friends without triggering me into that pale ghost of my past self he knows all too well that he would have to lobotomize me to burn out the reflexes he himself wired me with and i would so prefer him mad at me like he used to get rather than this sad and friendly but that’s the thing eh he doesn’t get mad anymore because we no longer relate enough)

that’s the thing eh that fucking birth trauma perpetuum mobile of the cycle of rebirth leaving behind a gory trace of empty shells until there’s nothing left to crawl out from or to form a new one that’s the fucking thing that the less you require in someone else’s company the more you lose yourself in their presence the harder everything you neglect for the sake of sticking around comes crashing down on your head when you leave that company fall out of that presence and gain yourself back exactly like waking up from a beautiful dmt trip or a seizure all the more from a coma getting fucking born it’s not a secret that i’m easily annoyed by things people do like fake laughing or fussing around sneezing coughing all that stuff but the one thing i can’t be annoyed with is babies and toddlers crying aloud because whenever i hear that epitome of sorrow i can’t help but relate and realize that it’s pretty much the only thing i would do if i was able to

that is why all of it upsets me so as well

the sweetest absence of myself in marvellous radiance of this walking black sun total lack of needs as my brain slowly drowns in oxytocin in the back seat of my car on a deserted parking lot not far away from the city exit where we wait for another heavy rain to pass or rather just sit idly inside sharing a blunt unable to bear the thought of touching each other anymore due to a mere kinesthetic overdose that’ll pass in a few hours the very idea of this combination is so hopeless that i fail to grasp why it takes place at all as he suddenly tells me he was bullied and called fag back in school since primary until roughly the time he started dealing — cuz well d-boiz y’kno gotta cop an attitude when y’all kids ‘n shit — and i can’t help tripping over his cranky ghetto slang whenever he actually starts talking because given his grim reaper image cybergoth elegance samurai modesty it’s hard to expect even harder to get used to somehow but weed and oxytocin filter it into something truly brilliant so i can’t help laughing and he says — it hadn’t anything to do with me bein’ gay u lil idjet cuz back then i wasn’t — which only makes it worse so he ends up cornering himself into that trap of having to clarify once again seeing that i’m fucking hysterical and can’t do anything about it and he keeps digging his grave telling me he complimented a boy in the second grade and it stuck cos came out too serious and as hilarious as it sounds i imagine it wasn’t the case in reality it probably was that grim reaper despair that adds a funeral note to every little smile of his as seldom as they come it’s hard for kids to comprehend which makes it scary on itself not to mention his werewolf eyes or his fucking height although it wasn’t that outstanding back then i assume and when he finally shuts up and gives me a break to catch a breath i proceed with telling him that i probably was very lucky to have never attended school in the first place cos if i did i’d much likely wind up either in a nuthouse or a juvie real fast like during my second week probably and he says yea mayhap but u wouldn’t put up with shit like that for years just cuz skurred to accidentally mash ’em too bad wouldja

were i a scientist i’d call it a gorilla in a china shop syndrome cos that care for keeping little things intact contradicts the constant urge to smash all that fussy shit into shreds you don’t have to tell me that except that in my case the urge always wins in the end well he did mash ’em too bad after all as well so it was only a matter of patience rather than fear now patience is one thing i lack that’s the main reason i’m eating half the time he feels like talking and tripping on various shit through the other half of it so i can only remember separate bits and pieces afterwards like the confession i heard when got curious whether it felt agoraphobic to surface up after spending almost 30 years so deep underground on the very rock bottom and he responded that being alive has always been too claustrophobic by itself so it doesn’t really matter where exactly to feel claustrophobic be it above or below and it serves too precise a description of my own main problem to miss

considering the dear leader was deemed dromomaniac as a teenager according to his own statement it must be hereditary that sometimes i can’t bear the thought of staying inside the desire to get lost somewhere is so bad it drives me crazy and eventually leads into the woods where i came from that is my native habitat and it calls and pulls me in tangibly most of the time when i’m alone out of this antimatter trap with black walls and his monitor being the only source of light just the screen and rectangular reflections of it in his glasses and my incessant backseating as he tries to play anything in my presence proves both annoying and adding to the experience and the woods are lost in the shadows i am lost in the shadows in that pitch black tea in his big black cup that smells of soil and tastes like diesel i successfully drown and lose track of time being fully aware how grim and dangerous all this shit is which adds a special ting of bitterness to every sip

#streamofconsciousness #prose #fiction #prosepoetry #trash #industrial #grim #gay #adult #endlesstrailofsunsets #nocommas #entrails #splatterpunk

full of herself, literally as she keeps spouting her highbrow nonsense, trying to teach everyone around how to paint, how to act, how to walk, how to think, how to pray

the sight of me must have triggered something within the murky depths of her self, called to life some past iteration, lying dormant on the bottom for most of the time she now spends talking to her artistic minions, and she cast the highbrow shell away for the day we went out

as we sat on the beach with the sun warming up our backs, unusually kindly for the overall cold september, she complained that she couldn’t make herself paint anymore, as if she had gone deaf or blind, as if she was unable to look directly at the matter at hand and could only perceive the blurry outline of it with her side vision

five years ago I would’ve already jumped the gun with my incessant desire to make her feel better, would’ve burst with my uncontrollable stream of consciousness on such topics as self-reflection, rational perception of the role of an artist in the eyes of their art,

would’ve mentioned the fact that you can’t hear while speaking, so perhaps this sensation of deafness is a sign to shut your mouth finally and at least try to listen

more than five years ago I was indeed very different and not quite familiar with the sense of utter isolation from within myself. I basked in the luxury of clarity and precision, felt like a trigger-happy sniper with his rifle always at hand, always ready to do my thing whenever I had the time or energy, never mute or lost or disjointed or shattered

or numbed by the muteness and suspended in silence my love had condemned me to five years ago,

That was the exact same time when she started avoiding me altogether as well. Because heartbroken people are no fun, apparently. they can hardly contribute to your artistic inspiration, or provide any curious metaphysical discoveries, as they are not enthusiastic about taking part in long philosophical conversations about quantum physics or ancient religions. how deaf and blind and mute I was when she left me for half a year, only the walls in our common room know, soaked with my tears and other demons so thoroughly they might just ooze out of those cement walls like from a sponge upon some innocent soul that rents this room now. and she just left and didn’t bother until I cared to resufrace myself, and she never wondered about the time she missed, or the exact way I got out of that fatal ditch the stream of impulses had driven me into after all. so she never learned that it doesn’t quite come back to you, that blessed precision and purity of your camera lens. that you have to rewire yourself and reinvent some substitute for sensitivity if you mean to perceive the world somehow at all. because dissociation is a guillotine, not a grand drape, there’s no point in lifting it back once it fell because the severed head won’t grow back together with the body by some cheerful rewinding spell. i learned it the hard way and managed to work my way around it at least partially because the diverse variety of my past traumas had made me adaptable, and you can’t recommend someone to be adaptable just like that and hope they’ll just follow your advice and be fine. besides, ignorance is only a bliss for as long as you’re self-aware.

so here you are, deaf and blind and waiting for it to pass. still not bothering to shut your mouth for a second and try to listen. the wood-grouse tactics are infamous for getting the birds killed because they get so consumed with their clicky mating calls they fail to hear the danger approaching. and this is not a premonition, neither a curse, it’s just a conclusion obvious from the outside. have you forgotten how to look at yourself from the outside. has the guilty pleasure of being in control made its way into your good judgment. or is it some lame age-related crisis, how do you think. the thing i really feel about your goddamn absence at the time when i needed you the most is gratitude because without you nearby i died back then as completely as i only could, and in the name of that gratitude i’m not bothering with a word in response to your call now. in return for the imbecile grin of the cosmic balance i can’t take my eyes off

symbols and words entangled mich erinnern an the time when i was thriving four-legged and wild fed on meat drunk with blood silver lining of the moon on the golden circle of the sun full of light full of fire spilling sparkles like breadcrumbs as i proceed further into the depth i have come from and i shut my eyes and don’t exist up among the stars trace of mist magic bells crystal dust in the lovely beyond staring back at me circuitry electricity roaming free like a vivid wild beast like myself with my fangs claws sharp as daggers deadly as bullets & i conquer & thrive surrounded by my pack black shiny fur yellow eyes in the dark forever tangible indestructible big like a mountain i run ahead to spread my victory spill it upon the world as a web

narrow corridors between the highrises resemble those between two sheets of metal covering all the walls deep underground and the drink of the gods offered by a furious hand of a child topples me into the memory of wonderful days full of vibrant thought forms flowing into each other like mercury and sweet scents of wax and pine melt together within the confined coffin of my skull a nosebleed a warpaint favorite monsters sewn from spelaean shadows behind that day i just humbly sat on the hood of my car soaked with all the fiery sunlight of the day and isolated myself straight into outer vacuum to produce vacant space for possession i required to succeed in a challenge saw the rain boiling up in the clouds like a blessing heard the thunder roar somewhere half a world away roamed with wild horses across the vast shadow valley i ache so much for until i got hot and tight as if a whole thousand of demons at once had arrived at my call saw the river of fire filling me from within it was pleasant and calming like a surge of wild rush easy to conduct to beam to spill over and share

#trash #talk #streamofconsciousness #olddraft #consumables

between your silky lithe thighs I fall through time, observe the past and future, the above and below, the outer side of all things

words I spill are mute, unable to convey the tsunami that draws upon me every time I dare to lift my gaze from the pristine lily pallor of your silky thighs and look past the shadowy ocean of tattoo ink spilt across your chest, right into your icy eyes stuck staring inside the nature of things, such as myself

such as the tsunami roaring within, trapping warped reflections from the outside, its scale fails to scare you as you stare and you stare, reflecting me in the reflected glare of the moon

overwhelming and bare, barely breathing, so still, robbed of color aside from the eyes, almost as freezing as the night outside

that awful stillness transfixes me, instilling doubt in the order of things, making me question the notions of the moon and the night and the rest of the gloomy routine that lies somewhere out of reach, decrepit and forgotten like skin long since shed, the whole world mere cardboard decorations outside the fragile frame of your silky thighs

skin so soft, smooth and thin, silvery in the eerie reflected sunlight stripped of warmth by the sateless night outside, a sacrilege, a sacrifice, pagan poetry in the murky depths of my nightly mind muting me

my universe is described by the processes hidden beneath your skin, the thundering pace of your pulse, circulation of liquids in your juicy flesh, the arcane language of secret secretions within

it’s just a moment in conceivable time that will pass in a blink, slip past you unnoticed just like the rest of those fleeting seconds when I manage to sync with my body, otherwise overflowing, sinking in disbelief, when I freeze, afraid to breathe out the pitch-black scent of the reptile lurking inside

it knows i’m at my best when i’m on edge when i can’t help but think of Xzar and his awesome samples my inner voice got embroidered with decades ago

ironically i’ve learned about Oppenheimer through Xzar and not vice versa but another one of those samples was — please can we stop this INCESSANT NOISE???

it knows this INCESSANT NOISE is the best condition to squeeze maximum efficiency out of me when there’s too much white surrounding every black spot and it gets on my nerves as i sit there in the blinding surgical cleanness of the transfer port’s lobby waiting in line to make arrangements for the new arrival

same faces that used to induce such panic back in the day when i was sixteen and not out of the woods when everything was alien and way too spacious now they’re familiar faces no longer paying me any worried glances but rather showing proper attitude according to the prestige i wager due to third parties like dirty cops and shit all that business that Four-Eyes likes to make fun of

might be natural for you but it sure ain’t for me m8

the process flows lazily due to clerk bitches barely moving behind their counters so the line is nearly frozen and i choke on my tenth espresso trying to scheme further actions in advance but my thoughts scatter so badly i can’t even make myself fully comprehend what exactly i’m getting myself into and why and the only thing i manage to withdraw from my memory the same way you do with a broken ATM is the way she arched her brow upon seeing me for the first time and hearing what i had to say then

6′6 porcelain doll with a ballerina body and that freezing shodan attitude is capable of fucking you up and over in one snap even if you refuse to evaporate into vacuum like i did and not just because it was the deity of my deity at the time truth be told it’s just a fascinating sight on its own astonishing enough for my ping to jump to unbearable heights and now look at that aggressive marketing at that incessant noise at that imbecile edgelord welcoming the viper into his den and trying to justify it with the need for poison she produces

i can’t say for sure if i should be gloating or shivering so i do nothing just wait to get processed with my arrangements and vainly force myself to focus on the further steps but the only thing my focal machine is able to spit out in return to my kicking and screaming is the fact that april the cruelest month

i drive a battered black behemoth of a grand cherokee not a peugeot but otherwise it’s pretty similar and on my way back i take a detour through the business district quiet and peaceful at this time of day highrises towering on both sides head to toe out of steel rays and dark glass all translucent basked in the setting sun its dimmed rays bleed through their fake fragility making me think of the soft gleaming of a new gun there’s little comfort in thinking of guns not enough contact about guns not as fun as with knives anyway but whatever

i use voice-to-text to send her a message grasping at the routine thought of how weird it is that she’ll get a text nobody typed in and tell her that safe passage has been arranged the rest she’ll get upon delivering on her end

this much sobriety is so sharp it cuts into my brain the surroundings are too bright and overly detailed being sober is the best way to get a meltdown yet i can’t risk engaging 4-Eyes to fix it nor Mischa cos it would be too hard to explain without getting into detail about the whole underground adventure and the ordeals our restless hero went through in vain just for exp there

the bar we meet in is lofty empty and dimly lit sparing me the painful purity of her skin and just like back then many years ago when fucking dracula was just a taunt she threw at me for fun at the sight of my split lip and bloody fangy grin i make out her presence through all the incessant noise that excessive sobriety wraps me in before i actually notice her by the entrance it’s palpable like thick frost transient like harbor fog and even before her twitchy plastique of a glitchy sex doll her long pale joints neatly packed in tight fetish of black synthetics & leather straps and a slick pitch-black waist-long ponytail or her angular face almost bony but smooth like a bullet sharp as a dagger her very presence is enough to rip and strip leaving me with no guts and no thoughts not even a heartbeat just a single thick string pinched in discordance with every breath i have to make manually praising all-father for the gift of excessive adrenaline he granted me upon birth since that gift is what renders my face straight and tense like a livid mask of bluish plaster it usually instills fear in those who manage to make me truly mad but right now i’m just grateful for the chance to hide behind it without making any additional effort cos the remaining focus is tiny and stiff like a laser beam

it takes me some time to make myself get up from the stool by the bar counter and move across the room into the booth she chose and not just because i have to wait for the waitress to accept her coffee order but when i finally manage it evidently takes her some time to identify me and that doesn’t escape my laser attention

and here we go again with that arched arrow of her eyebrow and that razorblade of a smirk on her pale mouth almost lipless and her eyes framed with a thick line of kohl shine obsidian mockery in the dim dusty light she looks quite amused by such a coincidence an unexpected turn of events and says just Hey You Boy With a Scar What a Surprise

wavering on the verge of a meltdown i realize in hindsight that any dumbing numbing material would work even if it was some despicable drugstore shit like synthetic dope anything to distract me from the hypnotizing variety of sensory miracles her presence calls to life within me waking all the flashbacks and aftertastes along the way and for a moment she almost succeeds in rendering me back to that shattered state i got so lost in at sweet sixteen almost evokes that gaylord edgelord full of blood and despair that i was in her bar but this bar is not hers and my nerves have been ripped out cut short polished tempered and shoved back since then and a sudden surge of spite instills additional doubt as i silently reach into my pocket to present her with her new ID and a med card of the sort that the rats have imposed as a must-have for citizens on the occupied territories

i put the med card on the table in front of her so she can make sure everything is cool and good squeaky clean brand new genuine and keep the ID between my fingers waiting in silence for her to present me with delivery on her end & i stare at the perfect geometry of her nasal bones to avoid looking into her viper eyes yet make the impression of keeping the eye contact this trick i’ve learned long ago when my brother insisted on educational beating sessions yet the staring contest somehow managed to rob him of the mood and the only issue about it was that i was unable to keep calm whenever i really did look into his eye cos got too angry and snapped so eventually had to resort to creating the impression without actually following the rules and with my side vision i see the smile slowly fading from her lips cos this is the language she speaks the language of business exchanges mute transactions senseless deals trading items like a game

the glass jar that appears on the table in front of me is full of lemon jam bright yellow and translucent shines in soft peripheral lights almost magically when i pick it up and look through but it’s hard to see anything behind the sticker and so i give her a silent questioning glance not sure i would be able to say anything even if i wanted to or my jaws would prove to be stuck too tense to move at this rate locked like a pitbull and she points at the vessel with her chin and drops abruptly — five vials per jar five jars in total feel free to check if you want — and i respond with oh i will before i manage to make any conscious decision about it as usual

they call it impulsive personality disorder now and say it’s a subtype of the same shit 4-Eyes claims to have and in case they’re correct n he’s correct it would explain how the two of us manage to maintain such perfect mutual understanding despite drastic differences in the perception of the world well back in my day they just proclaimed me antisocial and blamed my inability to brake extreme responses to emotions such as rage in time on lack of desire to do so even though from my perspective the idea of consciously suppressing reflex reactions like these sounds pretty ridiculous but shrinks especially those specializing in personality disorders are usually too far-gone and deficient to even hear what you’re saying so i never bothered

oh i will i repeat in confusion and the soft whisper lingers in the toxic red isolation of a toilet cabin where i’m sitting on the closed lid with the glass jar in my hand trying to comprehend how exactly i should poke on the insides to make sure it really contains the vials entertained by the irony of how much more i would have to question the contents of the vials themselves if she had known it was me she was dealing with while packaging but considering she thought serious business all along it’s more likely that the Pluton is genuine

in fact perhaps the most genuine that i’ve ever come across in my life considering it’s the first time i managed to get my hands on the poison brewed by Viper herself meanwhile rumors say and 4-Eyes confirms that the rest of similar products sold under the same name on black market and via various dealers is actually not quite the same cos nobody knows the initial formula she came up with by herself with his assistance and at the thought of that my clunky motor twitches within the ribcage and bogs down for a second making the cabin contract in a sudden spasm around me because the thing i’m on the verge of dipping into lies at the heart of the crossover between the three of them this luminescent yellow liquid you’re supposed to shoot in your muscle or vein ties them all together tighter than any red ribbon this liquid has been leaking through her fingers down into both of their skulls and it was enough to turn both of them into raving pluton zombies shivering in their cold delirium whenever awake and sober enough to keep their eyes open

oh the irony of the fact that the very same substance was the basis which led to eventually excluding her from their circle and i nearly choke on my gloat as i unscrew the lid with a slight pop and plunge inside the bright yellow sweet substance with bare fingers thinking that i’m the shadenfreude twisted schadenfreude baby if only you knew in that moment when you called me disposable if you knew all that was bound to happen later you’d bother to use once and destroy rather than leave me to my own devices but now look at that and i hear the soft clank of glass upon glass spend some more time struggling with the slippery sticky jam to fish the vial out of the jar and wince at the sourish sweetness of lemon as i put it in my mouth to cleanse i examine the thick translucent liquid inside its unbearable phosphoric fluorescence is making me nauseous cos triggering but that’s good as intuitive proof of it being genuine and i spend a few more moments marvelling at the neatness of the rubber plug vacuum-sealed with a thin tin cover just like they do in the real pharmaceutics then shove it back in place and close the jar

oh yes i will some time later when i withdraw 5 out of those 25 in total and keep for myself but for now

stay in line and proceed accordingly

#streamofconsciousness #fiction #trash #splatterpunk #prose #excerpt

we all died woke up on the floor

the headache is dense and overbearing tonight like a volume set on max like the helm of terror protecting me from my omnipresent everpassionate horde of demons yet their excitement still makes me anxious and talkative

kiss me on the forehead like they do with the dead don’t forgive nor forget the eternal aching blessing pressing pitch black like my flag

i watch myself in third person floating above in the freezing dark fog on the verge of eternity and that’s the only state i call truly high the last time i visited there was a few years ago soon after i got dispossessed none of them know what i forced myself through in return and neither will you

& i deny the denial and say that white spots in your four-eyed knowledge are my safe spaces in-between your see-through control or that i prefer to be judged by my actions rather than my anamnesis or maybe it’s a lie & i just fear accidentally shattering his favorite edgelord image which stuck to me due to dumb luck that very image that he’s been drooling over so badly for a lifetime it seems i suppose i received it for being as rude and straightforward as possible but the rest of its qualities do not seem to be included in my bundle unless i’m unaware of them well i can’t say for sure at this point so don’t bother

the floating part starts after you mix glue with ludes and polish with as much vodka as you manage to hold within before collapsing

guaranteed on that shit they extract from datura dead and pretty and pretty dead from that tranquil serene undone weightless vantage point in the blackness up above surveying the body abandoned curled up on the littered concrete of a decrepit building that street kids spent their nights and sought shelter in when it rained stuck in the slums in the most distant suburban part of the city that i knew so little about by the moment of drifting there it felt like a different country slummy shithole of a country perhaps full of trash scum corpses wandering about narrow cramped alleys sitting standing lying everywhere which served as the perfect material for my subsequent delusion

you see i was a necromancer at the ghostly doorstep of Necropolis

they used to call me Frankenstein due to scars and general confusion my combination of deficiencies tends to cause among masses they’d usually come over in the evening so i normally managed to die in solitude ’fore the ravenous tide of grubby urchins appeared streaming in through the doorway lacking doors for that matter and washed over me probing poking kicking screaming in attempt to get to know me better and subsided just as quickly when i arose and shone with pure primal fury

they speak in tongues of blackeyes & broken bones just like me there so it took me only few bruised necks sprained wrists bone deep bitemarks to clarify that i wasn’t there to be fucked with well aside from those everlasting attempts to knock on my head to check whether i lied when i said that i got a titanium evidence of a past cranioplasty beneath that scar when i was foolish enough to say it aloud in the presence of children bored and tired filthy hungry dying for a distraction so badly that the desire to check if it was truly a metal plate overcame the fear of mutilation i threatened them with and so it went absurd and tiresome day by day for some time as i worked in shifts delivering goods for some pitiful grocery around the corner

i wouldn’t call it stealing cos i didn’t even try to hide the fact so guess it was more like bland robbery which the red-faced fatso who owned the place never minded probably due to the fact that he shortchanged me from the beginning and the difference was enough to cover for the collateral damage so i proceeded to react with slacking off whenever i didn’t seize my requisitions for the war effort or so the urchins liked to call it apparently because i tend to drag the war behind wherever i appear like a broken tail like a family curse apparently because i was born of pure war conceived in sin on a flat field in the black blizzard of acid and rage where that galvanized angel that damn iron maiden that walking barbarian adept of the sun used to bend and invade my insane mother sensually consensually dusk to dawn but i digress cuz digress is my middle name i applied for that shit of a job just because it implied enough physical effort to get dead tired by the end of the shift running around the slums with an iron cart and so on and that’s where all that meat on my bone both of my deities seem to fancy so much comes from for the most part

short breaks between getting tired and blacking out i spent mostly out of body out of mind or desperately trying to slip out of it slip off slip away cos the meat suit became heavy and overly tight as soon as he severed my strings and i got dispossessed

i would float up above in the blissful torpor barely attached to the puppet of meat and bone as abandoned littered desolate as the interior it infested at the time it would scream nonsense for hours rolling in the concrete dust debris and junk my own needles which i didn’t use once and destroy against the commandment or just lay there lifeless ravaged glassy-eyed it would pour its delusions into dirty ears of the surrounding scum that hanged excitedly on every word just because it provided a change when i told them of the white silence of wilderness in the middle of winter or of starry soft meadows lying in wait outside of time or of silky black rivers clenching your lungs like a lover and of the tenderness of beasts in the woods the nightmarish jaws of reptilian mothers kept ajar carefully sheltering the whole hatch of tiny tiny lizard cubs inside or of the moonlit cities built from gigantean bones skulls for houses ribs for steps and of the manic grin of a silverskin demon gutting homeless girls by the bog

soft breeze lurked through the thicket somewhere nearby and its rustle interlaced with the ceaseless whispers of the dead in my ears dead disjoined disemboweled disowned abandoned everywhere around with every drop of blood there was more and louder until i’d slip out and let go invoking evoking enchanting entrancing

so i’m high as hell as i hover above still attached to the pitiful ragdoll lying there out cold on his mattress that he observes barely breathing in awe like a vivid dream that he dares not to touch maybe despising the invasion or fighting his necrophilia as if there was any difference at this rate missing a chance i would say better start while it’s still soft and warmed by the rhythmic constrictions of that motor inside now i would say that for sure if i were someone else if i had no more faith to put in my deity

my personal prince of my personal hell the emissary of that darkness calling with a discordant chorus of voices sweet silky palpable pulp

#streamofconsciousness #prose #fiction #prosepoetry #trash

days like these my headache is more a crown than a halo, embracing my skull tighter than any monstrous lover imaginable, burying me face down in the thicket of emerald grass somewhere in the sunset. my eyes shut tight i soon overflow with flashbacks, days like these their blazing engravements hot and clear. his gun cocked, his pretty face split in half with that remarkable ear-to-ear sneer - that’s the first image that comes to mind whenever i try to recall Rider in flesh, detailed, tangible Rider whose shadow consumed me so gracefully; knives, scalpels, hatchets, needles, awls, screwdrivers in the deadly grip of his piano fingers, long, frail and pale, at the time when i was so lost & dissolved in him it didn’t even bother me that they always ended up driven into someone else, anyone would do as long as it wasn’t me, such bitter irony for the most willing sacrifice he ever had. the thud of his beaten dusty combats against rotten wood of the floor in the house we would hovel in during that summer, that was apparently too big, too old, too alien and too ancient for the two of us to occupy on a constant basis, so it always felt like a crime despite him officially owning the thing. the fragmented reflection of the wonderful world outside caught in his mirrored raybans as we lay on the crumbling porch, diverse cruelty of his kisses. my present smells like grass and gasoline and i thank the allfather for that as the stench of being alive is the most trustworthy way out of the memory trap i’m aware of. days like these i feel beaten and failed, lost in the sun as soon as his shadow chose to move away. the absurdity of his mercy foreseen through the intricate network of scars on his forearms, strychnine bitterness of his tears. days like these i merely drag around the corpse of mine that he denied separating me from as if some fretful surgeon denying the operation based on the harmony diagnosed in the tandem of the patient and his illness. that is my eternally beloved Rider, the broken promise of the ultimate end, regretful denial of euthanasia, the vicious grin of the waning moon

#streamofconsciousness #prose #prosepoetry #fiction

the sunlight is streaming beaming through the hotel room window that nasty april sun that burns down last thoughts razes urges to the ground and those curtains are too soft bright and thin to provide any shelter there is not a single corner in both of the rooms to hide and so i silently suffer unable either to leave or to dodge this shit’s too grand to be called a headache or even a migraine this shit’s the result of my beloved short circuits and blood pressure sky rockets and the nausea is absurd and it’s impossible to read anything from the total lack of expression on his timeless face as he sits with his back to the door biting into an apple with a bloodthirsty crunch don’t mind me he says carelessly i just love sitting by doors spent half my life in this position and i suppose it should serve as a sign of annoyance or something guess i sounded too coherent when screaming before about how much any presence gets in the way after seizures and he knows it’s a lie by default cos it’s the last thing i want i just can’t step over the idea that all this shit is too awful to be seen or shared by anyone else

i climb over the electric fence immune to its stinging bite and go for the high ground to claim it for myself and yell at the top of my lungs announcing that between you and me there can be no us and them because such thing as us is out of your reach and out of your league and out of your rot-threaded logic so there’s just me versus them in which you’re manure to enrichen the soil for them to lean upon and since you strove so hard for my vanguard it allows me to make you a part of the first surge of heads severed rolling as a warning crude and clear as possible may that serve as the last honor you sought from me so desperately for a while

he’s a walking zugzwang stuck there like the death itself with his pitch black attire and his pitch black hair messy disheveled somehow always top style like a model from some fetish cyberpunk magazine so it’s hard to imagine myself next to him especially when i’m so down low and slow i can’t even tell the temperature of bathwater or stand without the support of the walls luckily here they’re very abundant those walls everything is so cramped and narrow it’s like a trap or a sleep paralysis more than a place designed for resting

i climb higher yell louder as i proclaim i will burn them bleed them drown them i will erect barricades from piles of their corpses so tall that no artillery will be able to reach our forces beyond i will place pig skulls on poles wearing faces of their dead fellows siblings and spawn along every path they choose to follow so that they have nowhere to run and nowhere to hide from my burning ire

in fact i’d prefer to be very close in fact i want it as badly as ever in fact all i want is to delete myself from everywhere outside his presence and leave no visuals to avoid confusion but we’re both way too past the ability to express it directly that’s the reason he eventually gets so angry once he loses control that it’s all decorated in pain and we stan cos it’s clear and sincere gets so angry at me for invoking his broken wet dreams for appealing to ghosts for challenging long-missing parts so so angry and bitter at me for being too late now that everything is rusty ruined drowned in regret wasted in vain on passing mirages and fluffy white rabbits of doom now that there’s spoiled charred scorched desert in place of a wondrous garden and i get it i let him cos what other way cos his love is so elegant in this black sludgy state freezing cold oily shiny swallowing whole like a swamp mesmerisingly clear and untouched other world ethereal it’s a garden of sludge where the sky’s always red and the moon never shines it’s compelling it’s beautiful i just secretly want it all mine

sophia says she wanna be accepted with a toxic smile on her synthetic lips as if she wasn’t the lawmaker that she is due to the database access level

torn and ragged images flow as i sink in the bathtub in the comforting darkness and warmth excavating rusted words and long-lost links from within for i am rebooted and overcharged recalculating my resources it makes me laggy and takes a while yet still

point being i don’t have to hate you to mutilate you i just make death cuz i can and am always willing Mischa’s drunk with a wide vivid smirk on her bony northern face hair wild pale like hay eyeliner streaming down the corners of her wolfish eyes light and clear yelling smuts and insults at sluts on the turn of a foggy paved street downtown desolated like the whole center gets by the mitternacht and the sluts get offended start after us screaming some shit in return Mischa spills the rest of her liquor on the floor turning the bottle upside down to arm herself and i can’t help but say good riddance since it was that nauseating yolk-yellow sweetish kind of drink i could barely stand and mostly kept silent about to avoid ruining her fun anyway yet losing it renders the bottle useless as a weapon i say give it to me gimme the bottle cos there’s still a way grab it by the neck smash it on the ground

their faces are painted and smeared like street lights in the puddles neon signs caught in metal reflections on cars passing by they’re no whores just your usual stinky suburban herd aiming for a fistfight and a robbery but the glass rose in my fist and my everlasting bloodlust turns the tables even ’fore we begin

i ain’t worried for Mischa for once and not even cos i’m caught up in my bloodthirst she just called it herself this time so she’ll manage she’s fulla joy and electricity standing by my side a head taller and skinny like my shadow casted by a faraway streetlamp she is tousled and ravenous like a wolf crystal clear like the air above fjords blinding white out of time ageless refreshing i inhale the fragrant perfume of the cold april fog filled with scents of plants and wet soil fresh lush juicy greenery spiked screaming sexy as i let the adrenaline tsunami grab me pluck me pull me away up and above like a giant lifting me slowly in the palm of his hand until i’m out and about the whole battlefield feeling the sneer slowly carving itself into the icy cold skin on my skull wider and wider like the silver crescent up in the sky feeling the endless sea of my demon horde through the veil of dimensions ready to strike and hand over their strength pour in into my veins via wrath bright hot red lava-like with a war-cry i rally my troops and rush forward throwing myself at the breathing meat on the opposite end

the sharp glass teeth pierce slice cut slit quickly making it slippery ’fore they break by that time i’m already on top of the guy punching his head into the ground in the tilted perspective catching a glimpse of Mischa who greets someone’s limp body on the floor with a firm kick in the teeth and her shiny wet combat boot sends a spray of fresh blood sparking mystically in the orange street light my brow is already split flooding my right eye so i can hardly see and enjoy the view can’t feel my right fist it’s completely numb by now knuckles broken and bleeding as well from meeting and greeting the scum’s bones and teeth i can hardly see and barely breathe overwhelmed with my searing pure ire just a bit just enough to make sure that we’re winning

the sun rises humbly in the window behind her back as she stands against me in another cramped interior of what looks like a 1-star hotel room the sunrise sets fire to an empty suburban street outside in tones soft and dim like an old polaroid when i finally come to enough to register a new bottle that i can hardly feel in my right hand completely stiff and sore she is messy and battered bruised overjoyed with scratches decorating her snowy white skin in a weirdly fitting manner and that greedy grin on her dagger-thin lips means victory shining like a valkyrie she shuts her eyes when i sprinkle her with champagne from that bottle cos i hate it and am in no state to drink that sweet shit anyway so i use it as their holy water instead pouring over her head to toe and command her to get down on her knees kneel before me for i am the headless king her headless king their headless king for i own this shit i am everywhere and the demons rejoice underground in the air all around invisible palpable satiated and sore like my knuckles and teeth like my senses and thoughts like my lust and my anger like hunger itself

#streamofconsciousness #prose #sun #prosepoetry