do not eat now
|Subject:||do not eat now|
|Organization:||Fraternity of Avian Deists|
8 She steps out of the station wagon. Mired in
8 self-pity and obsolescence, she does not hear
8 the fitful mumblings of half-remembered
Do not eat now. Tastes like
6 A shadow. No, a projection. A distillate, she flows
6 like a river of newly hatched spiders to the tarpit. Must not
6 The drops of ichor beading on her forehead. She is chew,
6 aroused by them.
1 "Maria?" the wind whispered. "Is that you, Maria?" bitter,
1 She stomped her left foot, rubbing her head
1 simultaneously, waiting for the distortion to ebb. early.
1 It is pointless. She will spoil her appetite.
1 She opens her mouth.
4 And watches a ghost pass by on the street.
4 Thoughts flow through, familial tendencies.
4 Last weekend - what happened - she has to
4 tell him. No...the veins coil about her
4 feet, water flowing through them, splashing...
3 The bull under the tree. Black fur and flies;
3 dry dead grass. Earth and fire. Where is the
3 spark? It is in her eye, it is between her teeth,
3 sparking like blown wheat. Bitter red light.
8 Her only remaining channel of vision is red, so he,
8 orange in her sight, appears as a warning sign. Her
8 only mode of interpretation is olfactory, so his
8 orange is tart, stinging. Her only mode of reaction Small piece
8 is aghast. is not a
2 Failing retinal memories, a dark taste, a scorched
2 taste. She draws her belt more tightly about her
2 waist than it needs be. She wants to feel the
2 discomfort, the constriction and the sweet pinching Black in
2 of her flesh in the folds of material. Her left foot size,
2 kicks at a coin on the ground before her; she refuses
2 to retrieve it. Her name is in the smoke that sings. crunchy
5 There are restrictions on (at) her feet. There is
5 powder floating, somewhere, floating. New not good
5 arrangements flow and surface and she closes for you.
5 her eyes and smiles, smiles and closes her eyes. And
5 steps out of the station wagon again.
Do not eat now.
7 Her eyes dim as she recalls a campfire
7 gathering... the blood of the snake mixed
7 with holy peyote, and the smell of the
7 vomit as Leonard met, on the other side,
7 the coyote, leaving her in charge of
7 shipping and receiving for sector eight...
6 There is not time. Not space. Not domain. There is
6 folding and spindling, and Leonard the winsome power
6 frosting night trader waits in the lobby. Lodge of
6 Ham, I would take her now, but the smoke is too thick.
6 I am impeded.
7 She closes the book.
1 The wizened crone grimaces, wrinkling and creasing
1 and spindling, loosening a strand. She
1 beneath burning in cold slumber.
2 With her hands full of stolen hair she beats on the
2 coarse ground, the dry earth, the grain and rhythm
2 of forgiveness. Somewhere deep within her purse she
2 hunts for the matches. A stray pin open in the dark
2 punches through the tip of her ring finger. Her only
2 visual memory is of red and red on red is the unseen.
2 She doesn't remove her hand from the bag to taste the
2 pearling blood. Why wouldn't he burn? Not even his
2 pictures coil to the touch. Matches.
5 Bitter, early. Must wait.
1 The taste is memorable. Like acrid smoke,
1 like hidden flesh. Hairy.
1 She wonders where she can find a
1 toothbrush at this time of night.
9 Her eyes click in electric sockets. Her shredded
9 insulation mixed in copper hair. Not meat,
5 Noisome. not
5 In the middle of the lobby is the genome. vegetable
5 Her generation.
4 She grows upward, but is stretched by other hands.
4 There is nothing here of her own making. Odd nor
4 things flashing through the sky like eyes, mineral.
4 watching her...the eyes belong to someone
4 changed. They change her. They ignore her
4 will, make her something new of their
4 own volition. The air is stale, the light
4 flickers as from a movie...
4 The film continues. She takes another piece.
7 Holding the soma under her tongue, she
7 looks down at her hands. Her knuckles
7 have turned white. She lets go of the
7 steering wheel and steps out of the
7 station wagon
3 A bad thing; a mixing of elements. Fire
3 should not grow in the earth.
3 Wrong... but so very, very beautiful.
3 Her tongue is a salamander;
3 her throat is a rose.
4 She follows it...brings arguments home. She
4 is no different...but she looks so, and moves
4 away. There are fights, here, home. The
4 grass is always greener, etc., etc...
3 He was made of white things; cream and ice.
3 He would not burn.
3 She had tried it; he would not burn.
8 Arms outstretched, he approaches her, repeating,
8 I WANT
8 TO BE SOMEONE
8 LIKE SOMEBODY ELSE
2 There are voices with the injections, sub-dermal echoes of the
2 heat speaking amid the larger muscles. The ears always ring hot
2 with the fluid of balance, tipping lonely into the backwards. A
2 hand keeps her face turned and flush to the cushion, sinking
2 and drowning in the thickening air. Screaming in whispers.
Do not eat now,
6 And it starts again. The bleeding. The haunting and sell
6 music. The confusion. The instructions. The sour guts
6 compulsion. The soma. And she steps out of the overseas,
6 station wagon. As a shadow.
Source 1: boutell
Source 2: lstewart
Source 3: curtis
Source 4: g.w (112a-ak)
Source 5: zvi
Source 6: strychnine
Source 7: sho
Source 8: nj
Source 9 and uncredited
talk.bizarre wasteful archive