Thursday, 24 March 2011

Papercut. Chapter 33

It feels like a sudden bang on the head, like a first gasp after choking on bubbles, like being torn away from death. Images and memories slide into my mind slowly, digging into my cells, explaining my existence. It was reading me like a book, holding it with one hand sideways watching the pages slip onto the other part, its letters burning my presence, as the other hand holds it up, a card.

There are no lips against mine asides the glass, as it strokes my lips, a hand which I do not see, but lick, my eyes closed, eyes lured up as I stare into a spot where eternities meet, as if it were ice sharpened by an rectangle.

Sharper even.




Him in a skirt.

The homosexuality which taunts you.

But maybe it's the incest which lures, my hair can get darker up to his and so can my eyes, what if he is what I supposed to look like until I stopped growing, my height above one fifty.

They all dance in my head, wearing matching shirts, nothing underneath, nothing shaved and then Norman grabs Kayleen, excited, he strokes her cheeks, as they go white among the red nose, he licks the nose and leans a kiss, staring and he eats her lips, softly, her face, a cookie, as he goes in.

I blink.

It's a fast circle, all around me, a crown of sunlight upon my head, as I hold the rays above as they tangle me inside, make a wardrobe on my body.

They are laughing.

Norman mouths lyrics, as he takes a gun and licks the entrance, let me lick it too, I see myself, as Norman slides a hand under my shoulder blade. He sticks out his tongue as he aims to my forehead and then he slides into my mouth and shoots, mouthing his name as he kisses me.

It’s my stop.

I run out of it, losing every stranger in sight, as I’m paranoid to see known and useless faces for me.

I’m afraid to see blonde, red or black.

Or a broken mirror on the floor.

So basically I’m afraid of every single bloody female.

I see a female, as her face is hidden from my thoughts as she kisses Frankie and waves at me, shyly, she's seen my second self.


I see her pressing her lips against his neck, as she winks at me.

Her face goes red, it goes out in hair as a tongue goes into my split-personality's mouth, it reminds me of homosexuality, it has the tension and the need of the body, as he grabs her and she rubs against him.

Kayleen bites, big large square teeth, hey, brackets, she nuzzles them.

Blood, blood, blood trails down his neck, further, further as she sucks it. He stands there dumbly.

Lora, I love you. Wouldn’t that be his dying phrase? Upon his grave which he'd win in a lottery under a coke machine, as he hides from the rats, which sink their teeth inside each other, making fake noises, squeaking a lost squeak.

She fucked, killed you and nothing, I love you.

How sick, how twisted is that?

Tear the brackets.

Let me fall asleep, as you'd finger me to a lullaby, which I'd sing to some deserted orgasm.

Melvin watches them out of the corner of his eyes, as his hands are glued to the pockets of his purple hoodie, as my eyes sew them with a leather window.

Let me sleep.

I want to sleep to make myself know nothing with the fear I've drawn on my teeth with floss in kinder garden back when I'd get excited from cheese pizza.

You're eternity.

Keep me awake.

Do you love her too, Melvin? I tilt my head to the side, wanting to gossip, wanting to see his soul get shred. He’s dating Jill, but he wants Lora or Frankie? Lora, Lora, Lora, I watch him devour her with his eyes. He takes out a pack of Marlboro’s as she walks away. He gestures to the box, whispering with licks of his tongue, eyes closed, everything is an erotica theatre, as he pokes his rival, Mr. square jaw. Square shakes his head, as Mr. hoodie takes out a cig. It’s dyed purple.

That is so punk rock.

Or glam rock.

Or whatever.

My ego’s the one who’s interested in that. He wants it, he wants to die, as if he were a book cover eaten by Kindle. I’m interested too, but I can’t be bothered and I have no life to live, so that's why I want it. Carrots. I watch him hungrily, needing to feel the icky, sick, bitter taste. It’s unevenly coloured, sticks, like Melvin’s shaking fingers, as if he were holding matches and not a slick green lighter which tickles the hair in his big crooked nose, which could be a crows if you dropped a bucket of black paint before stripping his skin off, the bones now a bird's. I open my mouth to ask.

I don’t want to, my ego does.

What else does he do?

He stares at the body with the growing feather from the neck, as it slashes his throat and gives out a croak as the crow cuts the young body to leave the shelf.


Jump on a pogo stick?

Poke yourself to death, sweetie, rip your death apart, an act of oral sex performed on a female.

Talk to soap?

It will fuck you back in turns with a toothpick, the flesh it gets.

Eat soap?

Torture soap?

BDSM. Whipped cream on a iron lung.

I shake my head, feeling a ring in my ears. Bell-bell? Yes-yes. Melvin nods as I pass it mouth to mouth, as Frankie walks faster. Melvin doesn’t bother as he blows smoke rings. I want to poke them, I want to tear them apart, Love Will Tear Us Apart, make me scream I want to wave my arms throwing the smoke away, as it lures inside a circle of the ashtray. He asks me if I’m sure that I don’t need a fast-track two way ticket to lung cancer. I say no-no and shake my head twice, slowly with every stretched sarcastic nooo-nooo, making a five. Two and two ist five.

I hate my head, as I can’t think properly. I think-think too much and nothing-nooothing.

Melvin and Jill argue and argue all day long. Is it because of Lora? Is it because of Frankie? Is it because of me? Is it because of the typing machine? Is it because of the silence they hold on a chain, as if it were a balloon to flow?

Does Jill have an arranged marriage? Marriage. Big posh white dress, the innocent one shall take with a red stain, a small baby to kill, fuck the baby's skull, make him inside your head.

What does black then symbolize? Hello, innocence I shall fuck, I lick lick lick, I am a black hole. I like that too. Champagne? Strawberry with a straw up your own ass?

She’d throw her bouquet in the air, then she’d gossip an hour with the next future wife as she’ll marry her grim reaper to choke with a knife. She’d, she’d, she’d… be gorgeous. Blonde, scarlet. Lola, Kayleen. We can’t have both. Agreed, screw Lola. Screw you. We can't marry a mirror, which we'd break as we'd fuck, even if we stick our cock inside.

Get out of my head.

Get out of my head.

I have nothing to offer if you stay or leave. Choose wisely.

Bang mock mock.

I feel drunk, even if I never was drunk.

I imagine what I feel, I draw it on paper and sell it as love for one quid.

It’s like when people yell out ‘I’m dying!’, but have they died before? No.

An emotional lie in a pyramid. Hah. Dork.

I wonder how’s it’s like to die and then get so-called cured from a clinical death. A xylophone. It's the word death. I bet it’s like now, amnesia, hey, wanna fuck, I don't know you, you'll feel tight, a fucking virgin to my sense of humor, I'm your third innocence, so give it to me, baby, you lose control, you bend, you just see black, flash, you're a homosexual, I shall never admit my wantage to girls, (wantage wanting a word he had slipped into my pants after I came from just showing myself and a quick stroke of the tip, holding the hole between my index and the air) you forget about your existence and then, then you get your body back in a box, a prostitute, a bow, bite bite bite, whip.

Is a clinical death like a change of personalities? Only a dead one taking over, choking, killing the cells with a hammer on a cock? I think of cocks, as Jack White sings faintly, an echo of the fact that I want him too. I press my chin against the table as Melvin nervously keeps flicking the lighter as I stare at the flame. Burn the house down, it's a big wooden house with plates on the floor which we row our butts in, I'll stick my burnt finger up myself so that my bellybutton would crumble.

Will you love me?

Eat the sign!

I kissed voila first.

Feel the disco ball hit my head, twirl, Kayleen, twirl, I like you.

I love you.

I didn't question myself, I just watched Melvin smoke, be a machine.

They were all purple, a cat purple, as if it's just been bought, my hand trembling as I dunk it to be blue and sink with the bubbles of regret.

I wondered if the purple marker was some sort of modern way of turning regular Marlboros to drugs, but then shrug it off.

“Weird. What would you do if you saw your ex-girlfriend, no matter with whom, Rome?” He inhales slowly, as if he wants to make the nicotine hit his brain heavier. Did he have puffy eyes? Was this an alive example how cigarettes corrupt the soul by giving it cancer? Gold. Buy. “Fuck it, with who. She still loks as brilliant, just as freaking brilliant and she’s just there, there and then she says ‘how are you?’ She has got to be kidding.”

The banality of humanity irrapitates me, you'd be fucked, but then you are, Melvin only you grew by watering yourself.

He did a hand gesture, as he did it with the lighten cig and lighter. Melvin shook his chestnut hair out of his eyes, inhaling deeper than before until a cough came from his lips.

“What would you do, Rome?”

What would I do?


I shrugged, realizing that I might be back, he didn’t expect an answer from me as he continued with our dialog, not asking any participation from my side, so I waved the red flag and fell not knowing which words to chew with the teeth I've been taken from.

Until I'd be sixty with thoughts, sneakers, fools, word flood.


The rest of the chapters will be posted soon and before April.

Any ideas what might happen?

The poll is still up.

Chapter 34

No comments:

Post a Comment