Vitamins. Caffeine. Vomit. Pills. Whiteout. Calendar. Salad dressing. Acid reflux. Scratch paper. Fish scales. Seaweed. Sticky-hot June rain ...and these organs don’t fit inside me the way they did before I ripped them out. It’s like unpacking a suitcase in your hotel room the night before your redeye flight: everything expands. The pills swell up in your throat if you don’t swallow fast enough; they get stuck - halfway up, halfway down - and now your mouth is driftwood-dry with the bitter piss-yellow powder bleeding out, and if you cough it up you’ll get a side of bile with that big-mac - that’s for star-spangled goddamn sure.
That magic-marker, factory-fresh glue smell ripples invisibly off the boxes in the back room – fiber-tape-tight noxious money-shots ...on credit. That’s a Benjamin well-spent, m’boy. And before you can file the flash off your model rocket parts these elastic acres’ll be humming with the lush luminous blue globes of commerce: where the streets move and the cars stand still, where the high-definition flatscreen monitors are embedded into every vertical surface, where the couches are plush and jumbo and help you stand up to take a leak when the catheter slips, and you never have to worry about losing the remote control because the digital cable responds to inhibitive action-potentials in your frontal and parietal lobes, and the sea has a volume knob ...and the flowers pick themselves.
Λωτtοφfάγοι
Where broken threads come to rest.
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