Tuesday, November 16, 2010
you are a monger of nitrile gloves, i've seen them. how many glasses are there in here? all broken and stained with body. the gloves wrapped around them stretched with no more fingers. a sweet little mexican boy doing all the wrong things for you. he's too young to be learning in here. what's that sound he's making? the sound of a body farm, a decomposition note here, a list of body limbs there. what's going to happen in here? the scratch of the notes, the touch of the steam up against the iron wrapped around your hairless shins. why are you letting me do this to him in here? he's scared like us. when we were younger and slimmer and once in here, alone. we are a davidian's tail away from our serpent intercourse. the nature of slime and under water we have known when we were here. the crouching and the floor, the lack of carpet or restraint, the terminology of our bodies only known by me and you and the dirt caked between us. we were filthy in here. then we were older and much more sore with one another. we never talked in here anymore. we need the gasoline in here, keep quiet and the little boy won't hear us. cover it in gasoline and take the hotel match and bite your tongue. stare in the window and cover your fists with gloves. light the match out here and throw it in for me to watch. ignotum per ignotious. he's younger than you and me and even younger than our reptilian greed. his mother is waiting for him, i buried her under the house.