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…

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