Bloody Shit

Vascular ventriloquism is routine maintenance for the monotone man known as what I am however bored I become is speculative reality hence my hindrance of articulating a moment.

For Victoria - Chad will not begin without you; he waits by a selfsame tree. Pleasing any other will undo every lesson taught and every experience learned. - Columbia

Oxford is indeed a full length button collared shirt named for functionality, cynical fashion, oxen are infamous workaholics, Ford is a sonic blast sounded by excessive pollution; the library is factual dictation of social wanderings.

Yale is a liquored yawn, Alleged Husband, also known as Kevinya, created this word for ale lacking excitement, perhaps the connotation of antics will be enough; the auditorium is acoustic damnation.

Harvard is a description for extensive mental exertion, an act of stupidity; the law department stamps metal badges inside an underground factory.

Husband forty-two deafens a chamber of commerce with electrical drum demonstration, the sound effects are recordings of me saying fuck you repeatedly and laughing. I am wearing a gray tweed suit dress split at the hip two ways, the material is salvaged from a repossessed sports utility vehicle donated by three enormous men.

"You look smart."

"What is this place?"

"A library."

"There's a lot of books."

"You got to do better than that."

"What are you talking about?"

"Have you read all these books?"

"Most likely."

"What do you recommend?"

"Invisible Man."

"Did you write it?"

"My teacher did....."

"They wrote all these books?"

"Yes."

"What about you?"

"I'm here to piss people off."

"You do that really well."

"I do it for them."

Ruby and Braid conclude she will be Britney which implies a runaway lost posh Brit. Rumored by many unnumbered gossips those who escape England successfully crusading the boundary of green hilled sheep are hunted by captured natives carrying spears. America was not a conquest vacation rather a prison exile for chastised citizens deemed so by priests of participating nations; the title of which we read written speech is a woman believed to unify an earth for a moment of infinite freedom, nevertheless she is difficult to date and we constantly argue while people wonder why we got together in the first place.

My Husband Fiancée Dearest holds my right hand in his left, we run to catch a subway train intersecting New Brunswick; I leave Rosa a letter informing her the houses in Nova Scotia are still there. She briefly coughs several chambered miseries while I trip a Doc Marten over a cardboard box hosting six hundred and eight pipe puzzle pieces.

If I am a dead guy you care about, grow some weed. I would really like that. Name it Chester and give it away. Don't let anybody smoke it; I want them to know how sick and sad it makes me. Do it where I die.

Where are you going to die Chester?

In a closet.

Where would that be?

You won't be there, I promise.

Which kind?

Remember the ring? The Rhino?

The gladiator? Yes I do.

Virgin Village calls upon me to move a stone locking entry into a child's tomb; I place a laundered black cloth through a groove of smoothness, a baker's ceramic roller is attached to each side of knotted linen. After which I am gifted an armored jointed ring, a stitched blind rhinoceros with an agitative Egyptian beetle bleeding the brain.

Abandoned houses, construction catastrophes, subliminal secretiveness, upside down buildings, burning lungs, hanging crosses, silver bullets, steel plates, bleeding hearts, zero is a number belonging to no one.

"Queen of the Damned."

"It's a book....."

"Who wrote it?"

"A fan."

"A groupie?"

"No an actual fan; it is silk cherry blossom."

"How did you know that?"

"I don't; hypothesis of logic."

"Hypothetical reason?"

"Scientific diagnosis of analogy."

"I took a picture of your coronation."

"She was wearing a chain mail veil."

"Wasn't you?"

"I hope I remember this."

"Why?"

"I fear to see you again."

"Why do you fear seeing me again?"

"Just keep those fucking stakes away from me."

"What about the garlic?"

"I desire to kiss my husband."

"I got mints."

"I do not care for processed sugar."

"It makes me sick."

"Don't eat it."

"I can't help myself."

"That is how I feel about him."

Through a railroad bridge escape I watch a young woman wait for her Beau, his wrist is handcuffed to a beam; a black hooded garment covers his face. She is wearing metallic hard candy, I wonder what her mother would think. I call the boy Jumper for a pocket full of wires torn from plastic explosives, this lad is not what he seems, I know not where I am. The key is a simple thing, his release misses the girl; I walk him to a taxi.

"I'm going to marry her."

"Go home."

"I'm going to marry her!"

"Go home now."

I feel a triple tingle of chemical spit streaking the canals of my feet; epiphany is twisted laboratory disease, these people are training me for deceit, toying with my body, attempting to induce my memory with physical tricks. I hear them argue amongst heel foot steps, I reminisce forever winter spilling snow flakes from her barren womb, the lynch is a subject taught in school; I am not anyone else's child, I am a crystal ball.