Mystery MEat: Vessel

All I had to do was look inside myself there were objects clustered paper wads plastic sheets covering the rim of my gut. I was lost in frequent torque, sliding was permitted until there was only one sensory device remaining. Pushed around.

In the evenings my objects are removed (I breathe for a time), my stomach itself detaches and finds its way outside (I can see it flutter off as though possessed). Objects are always around me jostling ignorant coiling and springing. All movement is unattended. Opening, always, and closing on concurrent frequencies with the attitude of these creatures, looking and pressing I can barely see them, ghosts perhaps.

In my depths I found an emptiness I had not expected in my throat, (then again, I have always confused my sections, sometimes, my head is my base, my handles are my core, my gut is my shoulder). Temporality meant becoming: this was not allowed for me.

I despised rules and they me. I needed the rules to place myself where I needed to be and when I got around them I’d end up leaning off against some shattered souls of brick imprint in false letters sloping angularly. This was how the crack developed that leads me inside myself.

(Suddenly I am drifting again; it is now allowed.)

Having opened only slightly, (I considered it a great sin to indulge in the fissure), leaking was a reality for me, liquids forever spilling out rushing spontaneously into further frothing about the edges of the spiraling fur dragging backwards over the red haired plastics resting near the loving windows with hinges that screamed love proclamations to each and every notch. I died laughing, I suppose.

That sensual moment of self-exploration brought voids eons dispersed (I am still surprised I am still alive!) latching onto some permanent memory contortion of fantasy: gliding fairies, no rules, no ghosts, the laughter and sharp corners of rock.

I am erotically myself, pulling my own bowels forth, and I am sure they are real, filled to their edges as they often have been—yet, my objects remain a more permanent memory, shifting my weight, the pain a reminder of being.