WAY, HEY, AND UP

Reporting. Sadahiko Anzu, reporting. This is a test of the Foundation emergency broadcast system. Please remain calm while we–idiot. Talking too fast like a fucking machine. Round two, round two; let me adjust my tie and talk again.

HE WHO LAUGHS LAST DIES FIRST.

                    ( let’s face it. no one likes someone without a                               sense of humor!!! might as well get rid of them,

         “ Complex,             Twisted, yet so             Beautiful. “

[ a thick pause. permeating air, permeating flesh. fresh blood in the consort’s eyes--this isn’t a farce, as far as can be told. lanky clumsy arms move, hesitant; and they lock the door. cookie-cutter cocksucker. who would have fucking known? blood roils, and it’s the top of the ninth! ]

I-I suppose that’s sensible enough–you view victims on the surface where your visage should be shimmering in the sunlit pools. That happens…to me too–you fumble over them like a thimble too large for your thumb. You see s-suicide notes scrawled in the stars, too. 

               I can’t be read like a book. You think you know the passage and it changes when you blink. I see me; coated red paint, sure, but all I see is me. That’s the worst part. Gore is easy. The soft pull of intestines sliding through your hands, their eyes crown-adorned, but just you? If you ever ask yourself why my mind’s speckled with forget-me-nots, then that’s why.

[ he plays the sick, inward game and watches the tilt of white underneath her swirling skirt. what a nice mental image. his perfect japanese schoolgirl joined the suicide club and he’s following her off the building. long strides catch up. he takes a handful of hair, just for appearances, and tugs sharply. ]

Born to him a thirty-second time, oh, I know the rote and the endless chord of that little refrain - see the diamonds in the hollows where your teeth went gone, see the devil’s work smeared all down your jaw like sinner’s jam. Ha! We built the temple from the buildings they’d left us, from the skin we tore clean out of in our escapes. It’s the black and white, isn’t it, hang carry myself with it like this pendant should be holding a cross but that’s the secret and half again, the nails he pushed through his own hands and what was waiting underneath to catch the tips. 

What a boring triptych. You’re carrying the oil down in your threads much as I am, got the holy ghost in you before the lights flickered all on and your own static dissatisfaction gave you mouth to mouth and made you a doorway for what happened next. It’s in the blood.

               We’ve all got our traitors burned into our skin; crosses inverted, nails in palms, and the like. Who doesn’t? Guess that’s the trait we share, but who’s the protagonist? Who’s the antagonist? Gosh, I’ve got stage fright and I’m forgetting my lines! The devil’s got nothing on the buttons these lips have pressed. Lines in pink skin, in blood red ink, in memorium and out--sometimes I relish those halcyon times, because it meant a storm was coming. What would you give to bring someone back?

                The only ones interesting are the broken or the half-heeled heading for a quick death and a late grave. Means we share blood--another similarity. Mom and Dad would be so proud of us.