Screwed up lights

Love was an exception it seemed. He hadn’t thought about it but then again who did. He craved for a potency that he could call his own. A world narrated by his own logics. But that was senseless. He knew that there was once something that was possible – something that he could live by – but those were dramatic ideologies now and none he wished to follow anymore.

His job was not a stable one. He was a manager of a little convenience store. His boss who he favourably called “cock-sucker” only made his presence when his love for domination struck like a whip from a dominatrix’s nice love weaponry. Hell – he wasn’t sure if he had it all done. This life. He remembered those cartoons where skin were like laundry jackets that you could unzip you reveil your true face.

How would it be if one could peel skin off – when one decided to become something else – discarding of personalities. What if that was to be possible? That would makes sense.

The snake was the blessed. Able to take off her scales when she felt – so reasonable and poetic – that is so great – oh grand natural morphor please teach the art – oh wow how wondrous it would seem this scale-chosen existence of that cold-coloured reptile whose venom-kiss is both art and damnation. Oh yes that poison is better than these dull bones – snakes need no erectile architecture – no appendix – they are amorphous as earth-air cusps.

Or maybe a  butterfly-erotica – the pupa that asphyxiates life less paved with erotica. There the seasoned seed will grow wings and partake in glorious creation. If only the science of body-morphing was available – if only God did not design the stoned DNA of chemical-electrical codings – this map of true conservatism. Then rise he would from the nirvana stained prescribed biblical roots of a man-central to man-aero – so plain and simple was this equation so –

” You know what I hate are daydreamers.”

And it was the voice of the “cock-sucker” that betrayed his thesis-theatrical of evolution – his Pandora Salvation of bolts and knots to which tied were the fabrics of a greater civilization.

” Sorry Mr. Co- Mr. Din”

” What were you going to call me?”

” What do you mean sir?”

” My name is Mr. Din.”

” Yes sir. I called you your name sir.”

” And though you are trash you are aware that D comes after C in the alphabetical order?”

” Sir – why wouldn’t I know that sir?”

” Do you know that? – Asnswer my fucking question.”

” Yes Sir I do know that.”

” Then listen – I don’t think you are that retarded to call me a name that starts with a C.”

” I was mistakingly call you Mr Collin sir – he used to be a regular around here before he moved.”

” And when was that?”

” I think a month ago.”

” Well then you can think on how may days are there usually in a month if I decide to cut your pay.”

” Sir – you cannot – Sir I…”

” Drop it. You’ll work here after hours for a month – is that clear you retard?!”

” Yes…Yes…Sir….”

Where art thou Aphrodisiac – coiled in my tongue – please from my parted road of saliva come forth to kill this savage bastard who knows no life.

The moronic light of this cashed, packaged life seemed to dwindle. It is after regular hours. A customer peeps at him and then – as though he were not under surveillance from him – shoves a bunch of chocolate bars – yeah Mars – into his bag. The man looked aged. Is he a snake? His scales are wrinkled.

He ponders or pretends and is about to leave when he – so staggered by “cock-suck-sure’s” indulgences upon him states – ” If you are going to shoplift – I suggest taking more than candy bars…”

The man looks at him frightened and started shaking – “Oh c’mon Pops consider this your lucky day or night! Whatever the fucking term you prefer!”

But the old man starts to cry and drops the bars clumsily onto the floor and runs away. His venom foams. His tongue slithers – his pupa bursts and colours spill like blood-broth-pot of all eruptions.

Why the fuck did that fucker get emotional?

He picks up the bars and starts eating them. If retribution is not a karmic gig then he was sure to accomplish gigs by himself.

He cannot stay. His whole life seemed trivial. Not to mention. Not to mention. Everything.

He looks quietly at the store – could he just rob and leave – nah – too expected so was trashing. Suddenly – it came to his mind.

Couldn’t he be the customer for once – Think like them – maybe like once. He can close the store and go to another or just lie here helplessly like the man waiting to be caught lifting stuff he shouldn’t.

He looked at the goods – he saw them everyday – not as a buyer – but then he thought – it might help him pass this orgy of extreme dullness – where penises got mutilated and vaginas got annihilated – that was a funny thought. He might be coining funny thoughts. Make a line out of them. Sell them here – Get your funny thoughts here – get ’em – get ’em – get ’em while it’s hot – get him before this body rots and tongue and skin oozes poison-colour that’ll make you guys think that oil is more prettier than boiled failures.

He looked at a coke. He wanted a coke. He took out a coke. He drank the coke. He didn’t pay. He loved this scheme of being a buyer – of being able to enslave and never grieve of a claustrophic life – yes, he should bea buyer – but a buyer of what – well maybe a buyer of coke or sex or rum or cocksuck’s decapitated head. Why does that tongue flatter itself with its twisted logics? Maybe if he cut it – with a handy bar in its mouth as apples are so archaic – and sever it with a chainsaw it might look a pretty dinner to celebrate on.

His eyes were sleepy – no customers around. There is a lullaby going through like a needle on a pretty string. Strings on a girl’s dress or shirt or blouse or anything – does she want me to open them? He wants to think about sex as a pasttime but no pretty faces for this blasted overworked cashier – just a bunch of monologues of skin and dying and if that’s ain’t sexy to those bozos at the clinic then who knows what is art.

The Lights dance around. They march expertly as soldiers – left and right and dance around – it was a ballad and it was beautiful. He wished now to be those lights that one could switch on and off at will – no not just anyone – he wanted to switch himself on and off – but then he’s be faulty material and they would cast him aside – as if he wasn’t already now – and he would light no more.

He did not wish to cease to light up – or was it because there were switches because there were buttons – pushed up like cocksures that he wished to chop off! – He wanted to dance – a serenade – a beautiful serenade by himself.

It was morning. He had not closed the store. He had decided to unscrew the lights. Each and every one. Little by little they budged out of their hibernation. Fruits – electric – fleshy things to be plucked. He took them put them in a bag and brought them home. They were his pets now. They were his only his…yes…

He put them in his house. Lit them up. Put them in the bag once again. Then started to pack. He didn’t steal any money. Only what was his to take for the month. He packed. Looked at the apartment one last time.

Looked at the bulbs in his bag – time to go…

Odd Normal

Sweet smells of tyranny cannot comfort the tyrannical-submissive – that is power that obstructs cannot truly build. It’s rocks shatter – it’s weeds wither and it’s flowers burned to blossoming suicides. The world does not expect the ordinary rather the novel is birthed in its inescapable womb expressing the world absolute.
He did not know that. Rather he would not. He had smelled like flowers but rubbed dirt to avert the stain. He cannot know less but knows more on nothingness. That nothingness devours him. He looks at clocks as his mistresses are too clock-like to be truly comforting. He likes these puppets better for they were all pretending.
When he was younger his mother cried on his shoulder. She now cried on his lap. Laps are easy. Shoulders are but more intoxicating close. They may mean romance or worse filial. She had rubbed out that stain. Men need to be immortal.
I was captured in a kiss
You said no
I agreed
but afraid to say so
His wife had told him that he must quit drinking. He had slapped her. She cried. Then they made love. Formulas handed by the gender mathematician.  But he had done so as he was taught. No less of the nothingness. He cried later. But those were not to be discussed.
He had slept with one of his mistresses. She keeps telling him to pay his rent. He keeps yelling and shouting. This is academic. She then apologizes. He does too. Then do business. The work hours were long and streneous. To his wife the assignments are a bit limited. He curses the air – the invisible – this bottle bed. Glass clouds his breathing. He sees an ant. He wonders if he is a favourite of the queen.
His other mistress calls him a lying bastard. He does not hit her. He hits her only with his tongue. You are only meant to beat up wives. You can’t beat up mistresses. They aren’t completely yours. Neither do you want them to be. He is not liking this. He feels like puking. He rushes past her. To her surprise. He pukes in her bathroom. She slowly approaches him. Asking him what is wrong.
The saliva of the girl in a blue dress stops him. She had licked a scar. Something he wished to do. Automatically his tongue licks his palm. He has no scar. She giggles – is he bathing himself like a pretty cat – pretty cat – no – bitch – it opens and closes like a hole of dirt. She is shocked. She is angry. She slaps him. He slaps her. Breathless. She goes to slap him again. He apologizes. She looks. He looks down. She looks down. She says he is odd. For a moment. He smiles.
His wife asks him if he will be home late. He doesn’t really respond. He mumbled. He does not need to be coherent. He knows the formula. Screw it. He tells her he is unfaithful. She starts crying. She calls him a bastard. She knows all of this. She tells him that she loves women. She tells him that she hates men. She tells him that he is bastard. He tells her he knows.
The girl drops a piece of ornamental jewellery. He picks it up for her. He comments his wife has a similar one. She tells him he is a whore. He says he knows that. She says she might be a whore too. He tells her that is not true. She then tells him he is not a whore. He starts to cry. She nestles him. He says he is too artificial. She agrees. He tells he writes poetry. She smiles.
His wife had left with one of his mistresses. He does not care. His other mistress is now leaving him and telling him that he can’t support her. He tells her that they were not in love so need to support is cancelled by corrupted fornication. She scowls and says his dick is stupid and leaves. He wonders at the intelligence of genitals and laughs. He hadn’t laughed in a long time.
The girl is scribbling. She is a columnist. She writes on the obsolete modes of expression – mainly flowers. She thinks flowers as courtship is silly. She says people are flowers. Thus added flowers are telling people things that they should already know. She speaks of Roland Barthes and how he adorns the normal with the hidden. He looks. She looks. He asks her what normal was. She laughed and said the flowerless courtships.
His wife had called and asked if he was alright. He asked if she was alright. She said she expected him to scream and shout at her. He said that was stupid. He asks if he would want to listen to his poem. She wonders of his poetry.
To be in love
not only a kiss
to love in paradoxes
is love of self
She comments that she likes it. She says that it is more true than anything he had ever done before. He is delighted.
The girl tells him to open eyes like wings. Lashes are feathers. The orbs fly. They are flower-seeds. Nectar are colours. She laughs. He laughs. He’s nervous. He knows he is odd. But would she – would she marry him?
She says of course only if he stops the dirt that covers his flowers.
He should be proud he smells like flowers.