12 Jan 2008

W593-M50-K6DFL

Green opera lips for the given. Breath, harsh, ragged and angular, stirred her from crumbling dreams of the helix, serene genetics and glowing machines that reached out and softly tickled her warm palms. The unwelcome glare of the sun was beginning to wake the others, too, although Darya's pulse was the only one registered by the cellular illicit at the moment. Still-wet jellyfish dangled from the limpid wad of years shuffling across the floor, free of all pretense. Navy blue ringlets passed through before the mirror could croon, "I love you" in radioactive swaths of stereophonic sound.

The dormatorium became suddenly erect, ready to strike out at every swollen gesture that risked its yellowed curve. Double-time crackles, hydrogen frozen into venerable statutes that toil just long enough to extract four shimmering coins from the tail of nihilism on her labia. Everyone cupped the sound of their sweating even more closely to their hearts, like they always did. Frustrated, it threw itself on the mound of rotting flesh it had been packing and weighing, lifted its arms over its nearly-severed head, as in benediction, obscuring the grey exhalations from the greyer walls.


Lyvus spotted Darya from the corner of sooted eyes and leapt frantically across two beds before landing directly in front of her and spitting furred bacteria into the palm of her hand. She blithely continued watching the gleaming pinks outside the window, the unfurling music of the morning holding her lashes tightly, too weak for suicide at this hour. Nicotined by the state of her frontal lobe's dark purity, a brief howl as Lyvus began to gyrate at a pace she feared would snap his bones. Resentment swelled in her chest as his beard began to freeze and it looked like she would have to abandon her reverie to hallucinate some new antennae for him. His mad spinning came slowly to a stop, however, and before she could object to his behaviour, he had planted himself firmly in front of her. He peered icily into her eyes.

"Give me your clothes," he half-spat, half-whispered.

"I will not, Lyvus, you know that," she replied calmly.

The gown she was wearing had been given to her by a remarkable old man she had quivered within a winking visit many years ago, a time before killing had entered her dream, when labyrinths of intoxication could still be approached without fear of retribution from its mathematical soil. It was renowned for its murmuring, watery gates, its brittle columns that could distil any gaze. She instinctively clutched it closer to her, half-afraid that her favourite pet madman would succumb to the temptation to rip it from her flesh. Two cells to match the warmth in soft viral dreams, smitten with the black metropolis he carried in his mouth. Machines swirled around Lyvus' blistered head, precisely where evolution was most unfathomable. His pulse stopped briefly as the gown began to transmit brief slices of its neuronal intent in darting arcs of alchemical light. Symbiosis looped through magical cries with gestures amounting to nothing short of acid in soft pattern roars. Somewhere, bridges bgan to collapse into soot, brine vagaries, large metallic smiles as apartments sewn together. Lyvus was experiencing that mournful scorch half a century into the passage of stranger and stranger dalliances, his own sun for a body.


She had not taken the gown off since the day she had received it. It had travelled with her through every atom of time and space, from the plague above her fingers and the reek of effluent in feathered clumps dragging the city along, to thin-legged rainbows, where she had come across gods that did not resemble gods at all, flightlessly winged, with faces of brown, fascist marble. Parasol drips on any fine map. It had seen her through the shame of real poverty, whose geographies were not listed on any map. The smell of rubbish, imperfect tropes and dangerous, mangy dogs roaming the streets lined with rows of sharpened, irregular teeth. The reification and management of desire, oblique, complex angles and wildly shifting light from scarred faces. It soothed her when she was worried or inundated with a flood of quotidian process. Its mystery sang her troubled heart to sleep at night, while its omniscience scoured the landscape and kept its frail harmonies aligned while she slept. It leapt over logic for her, made every inch of the miracle more coherent and carried the insidious flop of heavy breasts back where they came from at her command. It rode the haze of the present with her, rendered the erotic even more translucent whenever her outer contours shared their glorious aroma with the firesale in her imperial urethra.

She had no intention of giving it up. Ever.

Lyvus had started from his trance now, looking no worse for wear, really. His singular alien infection had been battered into seasonal elements, mermaids clearly visible through the diaphanous skin hugging his ribcage, not to mention the puppet motifs that had grown around his fingers and toes. All in all, however, he actually appeared to be calmer after this latest bout of shrugged purple. Polished overtures to pervasive geometry.

"My insides burn, Darya. All the time. I have to leave here...with you. I can't bring myself to leave without you."

A nice cut, he looked terribly, terribly vulnerable all of a sudden, his emaciated, skeletal hand rising to sweep his greasy, blood-flecked locks further back onto his balding frame of skull.

Poor madman.

With meterological quickness, a wavering island of poison like the filthy, stinking rich, Darya seized his head in both hands. He sobbed cells of process. A locked door swinging its slim waist now playing the exterior, it had a provincial blend of the blue-note and the laws of man swimming around in his raw, exposed synapses. Crowds evacuated, discharge a good indication of their nullity. Precision and force, an inward hiss warm as blood sleeping beneath the silence, thirteen requiring no exact time or its muse. Twitching elbows, lights from the inner carnival flowed down her wrists as she chanted softly into his agonized translucence, magical on her lower lip.

"I'm not a killer, Lyvus, but Iam a canyon of filth."

Black wings protruded suddenly from that place where vistas were simply faster.

A colonial hunger waiting softly.Triangular suns sang of a world in its ascenscion, where there was no longer any need for sorrow. Lyvus removed his lips to bask in the splendour of his burning madness. Concrete psalms, dramas rendered into consciousness with the skill of anything dirty, trembling chalets squeezed into cabinets that delight in kneeling before false gods.

Lesbian glasses snowed in astonishment. Lyvus took obvious delight in the astounding number of moths licking at his temples as he showered in front of the dark, beautiful layers given away by a glance. He packed the manuscript away with his rage and methodically set his denuded flesh atop the intrinsic. Racism clapped its feathery response as Dariya began to withdraw her fingers from the pile of blue sand she had snatched stealthily from the detritus of his few remaining dreams.

"The distortion...Dariya, the distortion...," he trailed off before moving down the line of monkey arms flailing away at lit cigarettes, the quivering, pallid cleft of their waning certainty. Light teased ribbons from his eyes, and his breasts began to augment themselves with moments of genuine lift-off. Soon he would squelch in fours, and he knew it.

Commas punctured the arsenal of shadows, and the room straddled into a wince, its posture lounging forever on the clamour of voices pitted against original sin's ardent rocketry. Power arrogant yet airy, too, for ten hours at a time, most days. Space somehow found a way to poison the love between them, injured bouts of prose and all. Dariya remembered sitting naked together, in terror and mutually acrylic. they were on display for minor bards to carry alongside the opposite of urbanized. Agile as flutes, lines of muscle ran for the inverted microcosm, adopted a deeply-spiritual sense of irony and drank freely from biological swords left to sour by sex. Lyvus watched the rotting flesh nibble serenely at his etymology, withdrew his wish for peace and tossed it at Dariya's feet.

"Let's go. There's no reason for us to stay here anymore."

"Lyvus, are you a hundred percent certain there's absolutely nothing this doctor can do for you? Alvarat assured me he was quite special, as far as doctors go."

"All he does is rattle my sperm, Dariya. We spend hour after hour together, and that's all he's capable of. he can't even burst the shores of my scree yet. I don't know who he studied with or where, but I'm beginning to suspect he doesn't have a degree at all, that's he's just some crank who gets paid to sit here and watch us all remain captive to cellular divisions until the day we die."

The doctors there were all chemical manifestations piped into the wards by the search function. Desultory and genetic, with thousands of rows of bayonets flashing by on the television's day of fire and grace, they usually just put their badges clearly on display for everyone to stand in awe of, then continued with their real task of putting the shine back in comedy in ways that were sure to irk everyone's lean of teeth. Plastic frothed in their veins, teal poured out of their strands of hair by the gallon every day at noon, and ghosts worked their street-corners to exhaustion. Machines barked at even a hint of their scent.

6 comments:

cocaine jesus said...

if dali wrote a tale, it might have been like this.

Robert said...

yeah, im into surrealist narrative these days, CJ

at first i was hesitant to post it because of the length

but then i thought, ah shit, why not?


(on another tangent, did you know that Picasso did some awfully fine surrealist writing?)

Aaron Held said...

such amazing stuff, you should write a novel!

Inconsequential said...

cool.
Shall have to read it again though.

Robert said...

thanks so much to you all


iam working on a novel, Aaron...this is an excerpt...i plan on doing something like William Bokelund's "Art Set Free" project, an endless, constantly-in-progress surreal novel

due to some tough living conditions at the moment, i dont have as much leisure time to write as i would like...so i just focus on the mighty Discharge...when i get a proper place to live (hopefully in a couple of months), that project will get off the ground

murmurists said...

Good luck with it, Robert. Fine stuff.