Onomatopoeia (dikt/berättelse)
Hel titel : “Onomatopoeia” or “Quixotical herbivore & the flowers drawn in red vessels”
Lite fint småklyschigt om det jag kommer ihåg av när jag träffade min nuvarande flickvän för första gången. Dock väldigt inlindat och rätt introvert, men så blev det. Håll till godo!
" - “Can I take your photo?”
Enter : another something-or-other day in my empty, pretty pretty but ordinary kind-of-malevolent, kind-of-benevolent youthhood of an aorta. Rectascensionalized with thoughts of imperviousness I hadn’t suffocated on neurotoxins for some time. No, I don’t remember why (had I a reason) and I certainly don’t remember crawling, dragging a crucifixed lamb handled with the uttermost care. I was scolding my own joints to get to the celebral junction in time where this friend of mine would be, beaten in sand to the teeth. We were going to adjourn with an old class accomplice of mine and some wretched concubines of hers, for I had wanted to poise myself for some time and we had talked about feasting upon the desolate corpse of a soirée together.
Scattered upon the altar of my Athena Parthenos, and, as always, tired like tire wire strap-ons, I only got my spasticating tentacles around this one tapdanced dendrite, pinched down tightly in a holster but still more than comfortably numb, and so we waltzed on secure in the deterioration of our lighthouse glands. We came, we saw and I thought there would be more concubines. Why did I wear that t-shirt? Nevertheless the only girl I didn’t know from before was cute, a kind of autodidact suffragette that I wouldn’t have minded frolicking upon. But where were her wings? Was she, perhaps, a dealate?
The atmosphere was as the lithosphere, not that high. Could you tell I was alone? I was unmistakably a schwarzchild, long gone was the feeling of being a star, even in it’s red giant phase.
We all drank circumsized chiromancie, we tried to have conversations while the mist of drought took a hike. Aloft we then became, and much is a blur from there. A gaussian blur that I later found myself wanting to sugar structurize to make it melt on the tip of my tongue. I remember accidentaly smashing a glass in some way (oh, the hearts of men), which pretty much gave me and the wingless girl something to talk about. With shrapnels in our hands and blood on her purse, we exchanged typical craftmanship thoughts and a cacophony of featurettes. I felt the feet of my ziggurat twitching, it’s too-Godlike-to-have-been-created-by-God staircase was moving no doubt. But what kind of remodeling was ocurring here? I hope I said sorry, but I think I just laughed some more. I couldn’t get a grip of her, not at all. Can I still? I didn’t know what made her interesting, but she was... A flamboyant speck of a spectral fire. Or maybe I was just in need of some action. Action is the new black.
Add some more blur to the coalescence and the next thing I know we were lying on the couch of her and my friend’s apartment; slithering lips, swifting tongues and blushing crimson. Then she... just left... to crawl into a bed of broken windows (did this happen?), leaving me drunk on the couch, still a schwarzchild I guess. And the funny thing is, I didn’t care below or above soaring rocks and spitting drops...
But I was too afraid to look for the azure ouverture.
12.