(no subject)
The Stories are like viruses. Embedded in swelter jungles.
Waiting latent for hosts, circulating in fog or the muck-streams of flatworms. The Stories in pockets, teeming and boiling and cross-pollinating and all the time fervent, frothing their teeth for an unsuspecting UN peacekeeping force to bring human hair and teeth and seamy eyes into the jungle. The Stories lash together close to the ground, they make thin chains up in the humid pear-smelling canopies, they bead on leaves like acne. Howler Monkeys bawl as The Stories itch on their skins and clot in their throats, yowl as if they were monkeys being cooked alive. Sloths and Slow Lorises without literacy are fever-mad, scratching huge furrows (almost hieroglyphs c’mon Sloth oh Sloth evolve you fucker evolve) in the trees, coughing cancers up because they cannot write-out, and there is a Sloth and Slow Loris rain out of the branches. Slapping onto the wet soil fat little bodies.
The rawslip, spiny stickle of The Stories infecting the tissues around your ventricles, heart-race, valves tight. Binding to the enzymes in your optic nerves so that all you can see is seen through the film of The Stories. And under your tongue, changing the fleshy tether so you cannot talk because all you could talk would be The Stories. And the ache in every joint, under your floating rib, inside your bronchial, pyloric, acidic, yellow bile stuffs. Stomach vinegars glut out onto pages. Amputate! Amputate! The Stories are burning up your legs, like vicromycin-resistant staphylococcus! Like Ebola! Like the worst war-nausea!!
Blood tasting like hot olives inside your mouth, THE STORIES in between your teeth.
oh ghost-writers, vaccinated against the desert rot of the blank page, spitting spastically and all you can say is (emptiness).
Waking up tomorrow with the viral scars on my lungs and a new hole in the heart.