Plenary vibrations, ones that ricket the sole to the soul, immensification of ebullience, all shrugged into one Pine Box, from whence, upon opening, all the knowledge of evil flew. These coins on your eyes cost as much as any stamp—to ferry your words and ideas from continent to continent, from shadow to shadow, from dust to dust in a pooling vortex of ash. Down you go, circumnavigating a bowl, with the squeeze of a lighter or tap of a chain, you are light and unbound when you go. All the light has gone out of your spirit, and re-verged to the insolence of muddier nature. Cork can not forever hold back the wine, she shall leak, and this architect’s dominion cannot contain your shell. And it, too, like you, evaporates into her terrestrial biology. Ink and sand.
My heart explodes into your heart, our commoners voyage upon this ship of hearths. And sip. The whisky glows incandescent, a murmuring copper in the hissing neon as it remembers gravity and finds its base equation on the walnut of the bar. Worms and ice against the bottom of my glass. They came taped up from the gullet, discharged nocuously, a shot into the inebriating dark. One fat finger fetches the mischief from her respite, and flicks her to the ground, under cover of stool. She lies in wait for the angio-christ to seep out of symbolic organs—a liver for a brain, a pancreas for a penis. Heavy hung the head that weeps for May Day, cooling against the cigarette wailing wall outside, dizzy befragglement of identities loosely entangled in tresses—mons y mons, a monsoon of ecstatic infringement, where the tips of me become the lips of you.
Leathery fingers stir the bristles of a silicon sop mat toward a palimpsest of Jose Cuervo’s heroism—parched and dying in the dismal landscape of Chihuahuan desert, curled around the barrel of a cactus, its dark spines perforating his skin, he thinks of anti-christ with mumps buried upside over in tar while his roseate rush supply bolts from green divot to divot along the pocked fleshy expanse. He digs in with a nail, grinding away layers of desiccated pulp until he pops a vein, and out dribbles sweet agave nectar; unconcerned with the thistles embroidering his body in come-again scars, he presses his lips, infantile at the stingy output, he now envisions his own out-fetused curl around his mother’s breast. And bites. Down hard. To curse her for her negligence, for the hatred she bore him in bearing him, to thrust him alone, callously from the unison of togetherness into this harsh and brutal clime that burns brands of sun worship onto his corpus, the pain rushing in from all sides, a polyglot of nerves shrieking, all ending up in his brain; a cacophony of anguish upon seeing oneself in the mirage.
Bedouin babes in harem-sized veils, all a-wisp and undulating, just like his penetration into the cactus, a prick in a prick in a prick, Vivaldi-accelerandi, seventy-two kiss-enclosed missives to the shimmering spirits out wandering the death periphery with him. And I pluck out the remaining white bits of ‘J’ from the silicon and flick them like snot at the barman’s empty alley. When he sees me next, I will ask for another.