Slithering, slithering, slithering black hole slithering, slithering. Sticky, sticky, stretching skin, crawling up, seeping down. Slithering, back hole earshot, slithering, tendrils, tendons, tentacle, slithering. Sucking, pucker, damp, sheepish tail-wag, slithering. All void, no light, dampen, drenched, slithering, tickling underneath, shake and shudder plates underground, slithering. Earshot dampen, slow river, tickling earlobes, slithering, deafen, cough cotton, slithering. Falling out, falling out, falling out, falling out, slithering.
Face melt into linoleum. Sticky hair caught up in goo. Blinding, paper cut edge, stuck down, can’t get up. Struck, struck, struck.
Eyeholes or pinpricks? I can’t look at windows anymore. My failure in penetrating that reflection into secrets behind has been a disability I have suffered since youth. I would always look down when I brushed my teeth. My parents blessed me with a mirror, whose elegant and horrific frame obscured most of the reflection. If I ever suspected God watching I would feint normalcy by analyzing the hand-carved owls and demons erupting from the mahogany. The mirror must have weighed hundreds of pounds, whose throne depended on the studs. At least, that was the excuse I gave my parents putting such an ornate piece in my bathroom. Their expectations fulfilling some destined failure in either my hygiene or their faith in the behavior of humidity.
The light rail was my special haven. An excuse to fill my ears with year-long squishy I stole from the gun range, and stare down. I’ve gotten really good at squinting really hard without closing my eyelids.
The sheer light and grinding rails put me in a chaotic trance-like state reminiscent to being in the womb while mother falls down a hill. I’ve gotten better at rocking in such a way that does not reveal my constitutions. My gloves disguising my white knuckles and scarf hiding my trembling lips.
I once wished for the incessant qualifiers that Karen with OCD struggled with, or even the nonstop psychobabble strung along the brain of Kevin with Schizophrenia. Instead I am burdened with aggressive shapes prickling and puncturing with their edges against my periphery. Black Triangle cut into white phosphorescent glitching background until strained and forced into Black Square. The Black Circle is omnipresent and makes every subject a vignette until I blink and the Black Rhombus takes shape. Static falls down like Black Snow giving my brain more obstacles between A and B. I am present in an 130723 state and never touch C or D.
I can’t write for shit. All tangents are blockaded by the perimeter of the Black Shapes. I cannot escape a form of thought, but merely change its position; giving way to familiar perception. Black Triangle is Black Triangle, until I force it into Black Square. The Black Square resembles Black Triangle with shade and violence but fractures my periphery. Four looking-glasses instead of three. Black Circle inhabits all. It does not block out but merely directs the shades into the center. I often compare myself to the Black Circle, trapped by harsh perimeters, but I am in no way able to ‘mesh’ with the Black Circle as the Black Circle contributes to Black Triangle, Black Square, Black Rhombus etc. This is why windows are mischievous and do not allow me to peer past the plane.
Wall. Same difference. No special ability to x-ray the concrete while baffled in a glass house. I see nothing while remaining in everything.
—
The Nothing You Produce, The Silence You Beckon
Faced with what you are. All that you have done, all the burdening souls latching onto my shoulders bleeding with hatred, flickers by when presented with you. My brow furrowed approaching with a smile, I giveaway my intention. Blood tensed so tight my brittle teeth click under jaw-pressure. I am awash with fate and omnipotent destiny, flooded by the Godhand’s influence.
But I see you. I approach and inhale every freckle, wrinkle, smear of vision that incapsulates your essence. By reaction and adrenaline injected by the Godhand; I put my hand on your shoulder. We both expect me to say something.
I weep. I stand in presence of the lack you have created, the Nothing you produce, the silence you beckon. Peace shattered by darkness and mystery, you are nothing but a child, lost in the woods you built up. As if blinded by the Lifegiving you sought for shelter, blocking out what made you grow. You have known no abundance, so provincial cheer of your being has never penetrated your woods.
Such utter weakness, such complete pathetic display; and what am I to do with a tantrum of a man? My Christgaze peering into them burning within the fire they spewed. I have been burning, we have been burning, but not you. You have been cold, shriveling in the abyss crying to no-one and nothing. Your pitied screams even ignored by you, the one weeping. Your existence erased by the cheering precession. Erased by the fire that consumes all, but you. Your legacy defied by remembrance will be exalted by the pauses in phrases. Nothing to produce only to beckon silence.
You create no affect, you do not harbor any substance. You seem confused.
You do not weep with me. You do not fold into my collapse to usher satisfaction. You are bewildered. Fear has wrapped its feeble tendons around your ankles; and you picked them up and pulled them to your heart. You inspire fear, you motivate darkness. Your power trifled under every grave you dug for yourself. I cannot strike a crying baby, I cannot destroy a failed seedling, I cannot devour an elder dog. I cannot mock a cripple, I cannot shout at a mute, I cannot kill a lame. These entities do not exhibit weakness instilled, but reveal that in others. I cannot because I am not weak. Strength binds my body to survival. Those who are weak, not to be confused with meek, gravitate into destruction. It is what justifies their existence.
And I am met with you. Representative of the ignored and depleted. I weep not for you, but the space in between my hand and the ground. We are both wearing suits with black ties, but I see a mannequin and your eyes reflect the fireplace beyond.
ZCUMCORE 
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