his longbow nooking between bark and skin-
sweat flowing into the interstices-
fingers slackly resting on the grip...
opened a bit, then closed-
blood flow concentric waves of color washed across his darkness-
a tickling parade of frequencies that soothed...
then a quick series of pulses in intensity-
(the fibers of the carpet rustled)-
head still; the skin slitted equatorially; the orbs rotated 23 degrees to his left-
at the edge of his high res sight a glinting gold thing...
i don't know where everyone is exactly-
i can feel them in this space-
or maybe just in the next room over-
the dust mites whisper...
while some dendrites were pruned, others were growing...
he relaxed into a rhythm-
and studied the others...
something about a sweet spot-
I don't know what she was referring to-
void upon void-
a hole in the noise for a space-
plia spends too much time in the eyebrary-
pink carpet syndrome-
but I can't ignore the possibility that this could have something to do with the attack or whatever it was...
the fart slitting smiled and spoke:
i'm in the eye
i can see everything here
full immersion
you don't know what you're missing
you're taking this way too seriously
showing pink noise
do you know what you JUST said?
christ i didn't fucking kill him
read my BITCH
can i have that?
who is playing that guitar?
IS that a guitar?
1 comment:
you've just read the 3rd installment of the Volvox Branch or maybe not, in which case you should start with the one on Wednesday, April 29, 2009- Magnificent gold Art Deco helmet.
or maybe it wasn't really the Volvox Branch, but an exploration of paranoid delusional thought processes for my psych class.
warning: comments may be absorbed into the main narrative at any time- so sand those fingertips lightly (like a woodpecker with a headache)!
why does he say that? i don't know.
Post a Comment