We know a body by what it can do. Perhaps this explains this curious standoff, for he does nothing but stand by the window. Before he was written he wrote, ‘Is this, too, love?’
It must be. Feedback hurts: that and its foreknowledge. In a coruscating interruption, he said, ‘Kill me.’ Do I recall an imperative or question? There is no more beautiful sound. I intend to suck his curved dick, sugar my cock, speed him on.
I hear ‘The Island’ spoken by the window which is the exceptional position I occupy and turn to now.
Here. He said he has come back: ‘I am one of the many who are one’. ‘I’ a shifter, a nobody. She speaks to us of the Dirty Replicator on her Island and, looking over to him, ‘you will already have spoken. Perhaps you do not recall your conversation.’
He did not say. She couldn’t say it either since that is not the right way to ask. But that means I cannot think or speak. Thought hangs on the nail like an omphalos – invaginated, incurved with its thorns. Faces in there scream within the vastness of its question.
When I told you about it – or tried – I fainted; my head sandbagged by sliced and canned pineapple. School days, no doubt, are the last things I shall see if you can call them that. The dead consumed us in small vengeful portions, flyblown children of late summer budding in roadsides. I bite my best hand and, with a prophylactic howl, fall to the floor.
Henceforth it is hard to see how faith can be kept. The portal gapes too wide for life not to be betrayed and allows much in besides. That is, we remain suspicious of the theme of Messianism in the later works.
I am not by the window. He is. I am by the window. He only came back. There is an altercation down in the street. There’s the crowd, that van. All portend the sick, stupid stunt you are planning.