press of candy-coated tablets in his cusped palm are PROMISES smattering the ground, clinking high like plastic beads. it’s hardly a matter of trusting the resident nurse ( whose hands are cold & steady marbled, as sure of themselves as they come. he’ll lock the words up under his tongue, but clint’s movements are CUTMAN; the iced pressure between winning & losing a match ) -- if anything he’s a stubborn sonofagun who prefers gnawing pain to tickling numbness. the needle’s slip to surrender.
molten copper runs down his nostril as gutted abdomen rolls into the straw couch, rotisserie style. yeah, the stench of body fluids & cleaning chemicals whiffs up from the cushions to greet his offices. eyes sting like knives from the blanket of hospital bleach & the needle’s tug into flayed flesh, salt-licks bubbling over. his visage crumples against the fabric, which is a SCRAPE in its own right. a GRUNT batters the glottal stop. matthew wastes no time:
‘ okay, but did you ever --
consider a career in POETRY.
maybe the couch has some virtues. his teeth clench until the enamel grinds off & pulp cavities grin vampiric, ripping open his mouth’s delicate insides. clint works; it ain’t pretty, but at least it’s a familiar agony. in this world, there are few capital-T Truths. he’s lucky to have found ONE, & endures it with stillness learned from his father.
‘ I don’t know about you, but I’m having a great
time. least we’re not getting shot at. has to
count for something.
origamiaround
prguitarman
dededos
janainaart
romaincrisis
turnnoffyourmind
areudirty
