They write me.
I feel their thick hands through my skull--fingers sliding the creases of my brain.
So it seems the saliva of my brain, the juice, the sticky-stuff--the liquid that must be pulled from deep in the firmament of my gray matter--threads a million filaments between their hands and my noggin', strings this instrument between us whose tenuous chords endlessly snap, and mend, and snap again. Song swilled with the twangy explosion of wires, played in violent wrist snaps, wreathed in gestated howls, resolving into a pathos so thick it's like oil in the air, like mohawks of splattered paint.
They control me. Ethereally, quantumly, entirely. Through hair wires, blood wires, cell wires. The body is so many wires. They have grabbed a handfull, uprooted a bouquet of my blood vessels...
They must have hired the microgardeners...
I can only imagine them. A Green-thumbed Guerilla. The whole lot of them inside my head.
Wearing antique, beige scuba suits with oxygen cords. Their chests emblazoned with green-thumbed white hands. Curled fingers revealing rank. Rakes strapped to their backs and lanterns to their belts.
They stand on the winter field of my skullcap (of course, getting there was trivial. The body is made of variously sized doors).
Now, with diamond rings, they saw portholes into my skull and drop through. Rapel towards my brain, brazenly use their own lifelines as rope. Clutch the lines tenderly. Admittedly, they are beautiful: the way a fire can be when it takes everything you love, but also everything that twisted that love into love in the first place.
On the floor of my brain, they are violent. They shear my neurons. Rake the shed leaves of my dendrites, catch the more languid of my neurotransmitters in the comb of their rakeheads.
It is not long before they've amassed a huge pile and set it ablaze.
The smoke forming a determined plume, braiding itself into stillness.
Standing around the pyre, the fire repeating in their visors, they seem candles embeded in the frosting of my surface.
And I think, I must think: maybe this is all psychiatric, metaphorical, a literalization of my S.A.D into seasons of the mind and criminal horiticurturists.
The winter of my content.
But, ignore me, forgive me. I’m using poetry to lie again.
What this will all come down to, is a simple misunderstanding of fault. We'll be able to laugh about it, years from now, when it's all over. You'll finally understand that what should be important is not culpability, but rather fault conditioned on agency; and I'll tell you that's what I've trying to tell you and you'll laugh again, knowing, that somewhere in all this is the mangled truth you dragged behind you your whole life (now too disfigured to serve as anything but a warning).
And when I tell you what is to come, you'll realize I have behaved well, so well, given my limits.
As though to prove my trials, once more they assail me. I can’t breathe. They have torn the air out of the room in a violent rush. Slurped all the oxygen. Amidst their grotesque inhales, I barely have time to rattle off the necessary words:
moon. oogamous. aloof. noon. moor. goof. dubloon. broom. ooze. groom. bloop. shroom. flood. balloon. oology. gloom.
The words stay suspended at eye level. Then, they atomize, unhinging letters like god damn molecular transformers, and I see the shiny blue sheen of oxygen light the room and I gasp it in.
I rub the thick sweat that has formed on my forehead into my hair.
Yes...Their typewriters have started again. Early this morning. A slow metallic crescendo coming from all sides. Countless tiny hammers slamming in A4 forges.
They batter their immortal fingers.
Closing my eyes, I see their abstracted hands crawling down the hallway, crawling towards me. Each wild finger pulls forward, each thumb skews the path with a diagonal flail.
Their hands scuttle like halved crabs. They are ready to feed, to gorge on letters.
They begin to throw themselves against my door.
“I am not here,” I yelp, which is not necessarily false because I am there now: bounding across the room each time I announce myself. Annihilating myself with principle uncertainty.
Impressed by my cunning, they leap about and clap their bodies.
Moved, they leave.
I Pagliaccio. I la commedia della tristezza.
I sit at my desk, my legs trembling, still.
and let my head to my hands.
This union of endpoints yields.
As the three approach, they recognize each other. I flip them onto their backs. My fingers:
aqz 12wsx 3edc 4rfv5tgvb 6yhn7ujm 8ik,(90ol. 0pl;'/-
Each part must always believe itself a whole.
As they write me, so must I them.
And This dissolved locust of control deflowers the wheat of my mind.
Reaps me, eats me, provincially garnishes its mouth with my decapita.
Dissects the factorable cicada of my soul!..
The tragic truth is that we must exist, day to day. today’s days. or maybe tomorrow's. inside the velvety maw of intangible time.
The true truth is that everything is really just about circles: how they have a way of causing pain like no other shape can (forget the banal eroticism of triangles, or the prescribed anality of squares).
Instead, listen to the cycles of crickets:
same sitch. same sitch. same sitch. same sitch. same sitch. same sitch. same sitch. same sitch. same sitch. same sitch.
listen to them drown you in sound. Waterlogging your flesh so it pulls off the bone easy as cotton candy.
While you are outwriten. Written out. You must work when they sleep: it is the only way to know each word inscribed is uncorrupted. To know you remain...To know they are not involved inside you.
The stars have started striking my window like lovestruck pebbles, and the wind is trying to find a way into my room, and my depressed array of plants are suiciding down the dark side of the window sill.
Among spent lights. With my Hermes 3000 aquamarine typewriter wreated in reams.
I need to be them.