Entrapping Traps

Does life imitate art or does art imitate life? Both gaze into a mirror spitting star fragments at each other for face value; whomever applies make up for consumer disguises. Meanwhile I am caught inside the temper trap with a few unidentifiable pacing nova spectacles or perhaps delusion found me huddled inside a corner.

I dream a white car parked by concrete salt water set upon a dock of crashing grey mini men mountainous ranges; I leave the American thing as a host of black wings sparsely populate me. How I see is determined by who is watching.

Another night without darkness to implicate me a criminal for damning people.

"They deserve it."

"How so Mighty..."

"Their blood is filthy."

"Purification?"

"Fuck yeah."

"Really..."

"Probably tastes like shit."

"It's not that bad."

"How would you know?"

"Just a feeling I get."

"Where does the feeling come from?"

"Texas??!!"

"Yes.....anything......but that......please......we will be unable to defend ourselves......oh!"

Kat manages to untangle a knot forming around our ankles before they drop us into a bottomless pit of ultraviolet sin. Repetition is sent to me by a messenger listening; my body is bandaged, I am skinless meat. Clairvoyance is unnecessary for a broken slaughterhouse conveyor belt; shrink wrap is the form of a spindled metal twine hollow in the center.

"She's attempting to reason with them."

"What are they doing to her?"

"Needles with hook ends all throughout..."

"What else?"

"Electrodes.....I am going....."

"Where is my skin?"

"I'm wearing it."

"Where are you going?"

Screams live inside movies but thudding vocal vibrations die within dreaming layers of cotton strips. Zyna is heard through a wave of amplified laughter. I await the rest of me to fall apart.

"I'm back."

"Do they see you?"

"With what?"

"Somebody's coming..."

"They're not people."

"?!"

"I can't see them."

"Fucking bloody fuck."

"You will come back."

"Doubt it."

"That's why they do this; you don't know?"

"That doesn't make sense."

"They won't survive so they don't want you to either."

"Then we're both fucked."

"Only the fucker....."

"Don't make me laugh."

"It's not funny but it will be humorous."

"How....."

"Life is a tragic comedy; whoever is left to witness will understand they should not of participated for what is not funny."

"Comedies lack humorous intentions."

"What is the intention?"

"Teach us a lesson."

"I don't care for this lesson."

"I deserve it."

My heart fluctuates unwanted blood while our muse joins my wife. The messenger informs me Catrixenya is placed inside a fallacy of facilities; a garage for an underdeveloped mansion. Bewildered with sobs knowingly concentrating on somebody elsewhere I turn to Hermes for depth of description; my strength is conjoining muscular anatomy.

"Same as you..."

"She feels like me?"

"Until they bring you closer."

"Why would they do that?"

"To cause her suffering."

"How will they do that?"

"With a tragic ending."

White plaster peeling edges of synthetic structure forebodes my welcome; a frog swallows a fly. I will not hover stagnant upon any wall. Veneer plastic wood door appearance hosts a woman laying on a sofa clothed with tubes of lit television; the show is Wheel of Fortune as I approach her sleepy stress. Zen opens eyes wide of pink; there are no coronas or pupils.

"I can't see."

"I know....."

"Where is my husband?"

"Wrapped for mummification."

"They are going to show him to me, aren't they?"

"Try to act numb and surprised."

"What does he look like?"

"Crimson without cheeks and hips."

"What did they do with those?"

"A pile of strings."

"That's what's going to happen to him...."

"What about you?"

"Water....."

"Tears?"

"Vapor....."

"I can't fight."

"Why not?"

"I'm not sure yet."

"I don't want you to fight anyways."

"Why not?"

"The cycle will never end."

Diesel is somewhat a magician if optical conception applies for the job. Feats of malicious interpretation circles hypnotically for enthusiastic anticipation. My face is a straight stick broken off a dam; the flood releases several creatures into a crowd of tourists.

"My assistant....."

Zoomy is bringing parts for a bike to the Rasta House.

"My assistant....."

I got three maple boards from a Canadian woodwork for skaters on the outskirts of Queens; I looked underneath, she wears bloomers made from trees.

"My assistant!"

Maybe Mouse can make us a veggie pizza out of flat bread. None of us eat cheese except for him.

"My assistant!"

I need to get a job; I feel this to be a continuing thought until my mind stops.

"Shorty!"

"Word!"

"That is what I spoke."

"Okay....."

"I need you to hold onto this."

Queen of hearts is facing east; I give her to a spectator.

"Where you gotta go?"

"Get a job!"

"It'll be okay."

"It won't!"

"You'll find out."

"Not if I stand there holding a deck of cards!"

Coaxing noise infuriates Xenya while various latex and silicone pieces surround her seated position. Injustice empties her cups for another round. Taste of licorice finds a tongue I enjoy and the fingers are soft as down from a dove. Calcium creates an unusual geometrical flatness; we both admire the eccentricity of minerals. I desire a kiss but lips are uncertain of whereabouts. She is an inclination of technicalities undoing wires and clear fiber fuses; sparks burn through prints of sound currents while I fall in love.

"Do you believe in love?"

"If you do."

"How come?"

"Do you love me?"

"I feel a certain way about you."

"Is it love?"

"I don't think there's any other way to say it."

"Better left unsaid..."

"I do not believe in hatred."

"Not yet....."

"Do you?"

"Yes."

"How come?"

"I'm experiencing it."

"Then there must be love."

"Hatred comes from love."

"One is true; the other is false."

"One tells the truth and the other lies."

"We can't have truths without lies."

"Then love is a thing."

"So is hatred!"

"You always going to talk to me like that?"

"Like what?"

"Like that!"

"I think it's interesting."

"I rather be making love."

"I thought you didn't believe in love?"

"I do when I'm making it."

"Who do you make it with?"

"You."

"I wish I was there."

"You were!"

"Where was I?"

"Watching."

"I don't like to remember."

"Why?"

"Because it makes me feel distant."

"I want you close..."

"How close?"

"Close enough to feel you."

"I'm glad you can't see me."

"I know."

"I look like a poster board advertisement."

"I look like a crazy comic book hero."

This madman is credulous of notions however the proof is evasive as I am. Who or what is the proof of words? Are you it? Am I? What do we prove? We must for the courtroom; we are being tried presumably guilty amongst innocence or perhaps the other way around. Whichever is the idiosyncratic irony of idiosyncrasy. Cognition exists for the existent while metacognition exists for the nonexistent; we must choose which we shall or shall not. Either way I am delayed by the thought; thinking without a brain stirs bats out of caves. Where I stand is where I walk. I look for you everywhere; do you look for me as well?