Might and Love

And I gave her the plague. Like a gift. A tremendous gift. A thing of beauty and rot.
It was that desperation of desire that kept us stitched together like so many monstrous parts. Together, we were whole. It didn't matter if most days we chose to just lie next to each other, caked in disease and naked, using our nostrils to filter out wisps of dead skin as we breathed.
Too deep, our devotion. Vast and all-consuming, a grand fire on some unholy night of fucking and redemption.
We would be redeemed. Through our bodily discourse. Through intercourse and purging. We would be redeemed. We would have it in so many ways.
And once we peeled ourselves away from each other, we would have peeled back the skin so that new forms would seek out the light and obliterate it.
With our tendrils of might.
And the agony of love.

Movement

I've sequestered myself for all time. I measure the days in spent candles and balled up pieces of paper. All the failed attempts at writing down what I know.
I have grown accustomed to charting my own horoscope, basing all of my interactions or non-actions on their suggestions.
I have been in this house for two years because of their foresight. Two long years, measured in seven hundred and thirty candle remnants and equal amount of papers strewn here and there on a floor I cannot see but feel.
I have been sitting in this same chair for the past day because of ill tidings concerning movement that the horoscopes have shown me.
All the words those stars have given me. Brittle, broken fragments of destiny.
My future is preordained.
My future is bleak and a study in inaction.
I remain resolute. I do what the stars say.

Golgotha Alice II

In between both sets of vaginal orifices, a total of one human head was hidden. Alice was perpetually giving birth to this head during intercourse. All signs of teeth had been removed from their mouths and the vocal cords were adjusted to allow for a sub-bass growl to bellow forth when it came time for an orchestrated orgasm. In general, these orgasms were ancillary operations that helped to pump a viscous, black fluid out of Alice's main vocalizing orifice.
Office workers used this black fluid as ink for contracts. Golgotha Alice was a self-sufficient sex organ of office productivity.
The vocalizations that ripped through her titanium throatway became a model of efficiency. She was the sleek, alien voice of the corporation. As well as the voice of its interactive voice response system.
Compound human resource.

Golgotha Alice

There were some advancements made when it came to making compound humans. At first, it was a question of architecture more than a question of can we feasibly make a quadrupedal human that could talk with two or more voices simultaneously. It was only until we understood what could be done with the vertebrae and the associated bones that we decided to go forward with the project.
A lot of help came from the side project from downstairs. The one with the heavy investments in changing vertebrates into invertebrates and vice versa. It's still hard for me to stomach looking at some of their more successful creations concerning cephalopods.
And yet, if it were not for their advances in bone removal and reconstruction, we would not have been able to correctly assemble Golgotha Alice, as she has come to be known in the sex pits on the 12th floor. She's quite the formidable sexual gladiator. What with all those hands and erogenous zones.
Oh, but the surprises between her legs. Those are the real beauty.

Reclamation

All of their skin smells of ghats on the Ganges. There's a buzz of flies and insect chatter as they move through that bone cathedral in Prague. Plague riddled worms the size of sharks stir in the plague pits below modern city streets.
All of these monuments, they are coming.
The fairest children bring the most horrible things to bear.
Glitter lipped smile of death. They open their mouths but speak nothing. The blackness comes from there. It comes to reclaim you.
And thereby rename you.

Ride

With skin stretched taut as if a drum, she dances, and the beat rides through her and initiates a sordid dalliance with the floor.
There is action. Glands of the hyperactive. Chemicals pouring from her into the air.
My nostrils flare and gusts of smoke dart out as if from a pissed off bull.
I look at her and see summer and its complete disregard for clothing.
I see her pulse like a beacon in the air to prevent plane collisions.
She dances and my eyes are focused. Pilots are ejecting and airplanes are streaming to the ground like birds made of fire.
Under my skin, everything writhes and then falls away.

New Advances in Pain Management.

After using the retina shovel, the doctor placed a small section of mirror plate inside the eye and then sewed it all up with a bow.
The crazy glue would disintegrate after a few years.
Although sight could not be fully saved in that particular eye, it would allow her to look into infinity upon gazing at any mirror as she was wont to do.
The doctor only hoped she would do so while in a moving vehicle.
That way, the fatal car crash that would follow her endless loop of vanity would ensure that she wouldn't have the chance to destroy his waiting room like she did this time around.
There were inhuman stains over every surface, his staff.
And the ceiling.

On That Channel, Everything is Edited

You are so unwelcome.
Reminds me of the sickness I get year in and year out.
I can't expel you, especially not after I have breathed you in.
You take and you take root and you grow, spread your wings internally so that all I can see is blackened and all I know to be real is a sun burning up my time and my understanding.
Down deep and from within.
Oh, but there is an upside. A shining moment of clarity, a peace that descends while skating around the abyss. It's there and it's plain for all to see.
There is no bad luck if you've eaten the albatross.
Just annihilation.
This, I welcome.

Crass Technology

On snow-covered streets, the carcass is ridden like an icebreaker. Its chin is ground down to the root of the tongue. It spills magic words in the shape of brittle teeth.
One could follow the blood trail as it turned to ice. A brilliant red lacquer that bounces light and soaks up atmosphere.
End results don't posit much truth. Just undesirables reduced to vehicles that are left to rust as blood stains on the landscape. Highways of headless pilots, bodies strewn like dirty laundry, magic words in clumps advertising filth in an unforgettable laundrette.
Then the snow falls again and the world is cleansed of evil.
Until the next thaw.

Dashboard...Before the Blood Starts.

They say it starts. It does. Without question, it starts. There's just no explanation. For its animation.
Created out of the thinnest air this side of the Himalayas.
We're prophets with smallish lungs and impish hands.
We don't create.
We pop and fizzle like fat in the pan. Scorch scent. That's our calling.
Burned down houses is the way it starts.
It's all over now.