Breakfast
(i) Fortunately, this is the good neighborhood in hell’s netherworld; this shaky simulation is a patched facsimile of mass memories downloaded and broadcast organically (i) * a million dead on the internet but the pain in his fingertip is worse than genocide for his uneasiness he feels no nostalgia these days for the dazed nights of insomnia waiting for the haze of daylight and the tight ways of paranoia a red cocking knock on the door - it’s her from the floor above, her whore’s minutes offer more than sucking love she counts money inside her head and worries about the swarms of viruses alive in her eyes, staining her neon irises ice-cream man needs food she thinks, within her aura of last night’s rubbery pricks and pheromone tobacco sweat the elevator cube smells of fire like black rope across an alley maw, the mouth of the machine grins sinew as they descend through circles of bone words on glass, a clash and clatter steaming between levitating plates, the globular walls stream acid yellow eggs and the sliced legs of bloody pigs the ice-cream man doesn’t know he’s dead, and the whore thinks of somehow escaping the goat-men, her tortures and the brain wires but all the edges here are locked until tomorrow.
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Mark T
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