Onomatopoeia (dikt/berättelse)

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j-adD P40 2005-11-20 00:16	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.
j-adD P40 2005-11-20 00:16	Thrown in front of a spoken car wreck : A few eons later she told me that we had been levitating; listening to music, tones, vibrations in air, oscillations for as much as one sixth of the time it took us to rotate around our own shoulders. Just her, me, her roommate and the roomie’s Situs Inversus disease. Who together by the way seemed to be caught up in a very fierce struggle over the evolutional aspect of trying to fuck with your clothes on (speculum synthesizer). I guess music while intoxicated on an uncomfortable sofa pretty much makes everyone dialated. Delinquently, I still asked for her number when I left some time later, and she gave it to me (willingly like a female tarantula?). It was true, a true facsimil of her inner most ceiling. I didn’t come (I promise!), I just wimpered away laughing with the Gods that I had painted the night before on my event horizon with help from the hawkins radiation. This was a comatose ordinary in restrain, as far as I could tell. Hissing, I brought crescent pills in the shape of contact lenses, and I went to chill with the two of them the next evening. Scythe born from lunar parallax dipped in the blood of a lamb now a fox not wearing it’s detritivore fetal distress in the outside compartment. I didn’t know what to do or say, but this special feeling of ambidextrousness told me that I wanted contact with the wingless girl, as a friend or as the fabric of my own wings. We talked, I dared touching her epidermis little and more, and she didn’t turn invisible which was a sign as good as any. She was... We were lying in mild lounge (next to the crepuscular couch and the celestial concorde parthogenesis, don’t get your myopia stalking suit off), slowly watching the curettage… Things were going good I guess, according to a breath of pernicious air substituting the acronym of saliva radiance. This is the zenith caress of a raison d'être, the scythe now a quasar... Paraplegic. Is this it? And the next thing I know, she’s from Switzerland and her second name is Sabina. Oh, I was amaurotic. Her wings were there, they were just really small and frantic beneath her gasp." 12.
j-adD P40 2005-11-20 16:15	Thanks but nah, immortal technique is not my cup of tea. No influences from him anyway. Yeah, it's supposed to be that way. Not everything makes sense to everyone, like I said it's pretty introvert stuff. But thanks for reading! 12.
j-adD P40 2005-11-20 16:22	plus writing complex/introvert poetry or prose is often a matter of learning new words for me, apart from getting it all down 12.
j-adD P40 2005-11-21 00:11	acdamc- thanks/tack/arrigato 12.

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