Microscenes 3: Remixed

Okay, guys, I’m adding sparkle to your pool Pleading for attention, older but none the wiser. Okay, guys, We're sinking further I keep telling myself that it will be fine but Loneliness is an emotion you’ve been feeling your entire life :- I’ve never seen your shadow. I look into its eye and place it smack-down in the pool -   an act of faith that Isn't entirely necessary. Okay, guys, I realise what a terrible idea this has been I hope this is cool for everyone :- I disappear into the air, myself a whisper.

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PT. 3

Every woman I've ever loved will die. Now's the time to party. Give her babies.

Snort lines of poems.

coat me in chilaques and tomatilloed rice.

add cinnamon to make fake glitter strip clubs sparkle.

Get stoned in Mazar with pastel cotton placemats.

Ponder the ambience of Coppola.

Fuel the Netflix addiction.

Kick the white pigeon coke denial.

spin a gram of gold leaf into nasdaq paper relationships.

Bed the dolls.

Whisper the future of sleep.

Die, pleading for attention, at a table of, at least, a dozen places set; gracefully somber faces and a few empty chairs.

'Should I bother trying to make this work?'

'Yes, please, Mother.'

Roses gravely coat the altar to help the appearance of her thread; a parent's doll sitting in her seat.

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Chuuuuuuuuuuuck Yoooooooooouuuuuuuuuuuunnnnnnnnnnnngggggg

Everyone thinks that I am a small wish in your throat making it hard to speak and breathing on the window and knocking on the door again and again but the truth is I am a tiny insect flitting around in your moist insides.

Everyone thinks that I am a tiny insect getting excited and bobbing and gulping like a small child with the souls of my bare feet tickling your muscles again and again but the truth is I am a little ghost in your oesophagus finding new kinds of music.

Everyone thinks I am a little ghost grinning as I tiptoe across your neck and your shoulders swallowing a jawbreaker again and again but the truth is I am a very cute story watching little wishes come true.

Everyone thinks I am a very cute story about kissing leaves and gurgling  and getting closer again and again but the truth is I am very nervous because I am a hostage in a violent movie dying satisfied again and again.

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You're your your of you be standing -

hands reach everything you've seen ago -

to the cell phone to the middle of your 1000-piece body -

feels the rug -

Puzzle!

Start back rip it up 

frantically moved bird slinks exposing the pristine vacuumed rug underneath your groundhog

white, runny shit drips off onto the flooring you'd moved in. 

"Press your face and ear to the window, you've been a shadow your entire life. 

You've not quite lifted the the the rug.

But but you run never actually sitting but swept around around to the ground

The rug, the rug needs to be thrown. 

Realize it's too ripe downstairs. 

You're not quite moved 

Past this emotion - you've the spot;

Set out on this counter your face may be charged tree edge

Sitting on and onto you a bird planted this rug, feeling the avocado water and rolls to one side

Glance at the rug, realize tomorrow is suicide, the room you think that living in and for 8 years

Never seen your splash"

Standing sure, turns back. Bathroom counter. Needs too. Finally.

In! In! A-a! The...the...that! That! Had that land!

This parquet parquet floor hoping you remember 

But like termites,

How if cast out it's condition be ripe viable the branch 

Hoping baptism and laundry and folding, may be then the needs sure switched off sure too

Whisper away to to at demons on the television will look

Since to your you a you is around but it's the loneliness had but the option

The suicide! The splash! Realize the begonias, the calendar, a day and a mopped room takes you a past you its you out.

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Louie leaped up, grabbed my ankles, and pushed my body along the ground, yelling mean-spirited words at me. I picked up the words with my teeth. In this house we whisper, harsh and coarse. We whisper out the window, playing in this house, in our mouths, silly swords in our hands. Louie is all competitive. She slams prayers, all dicey from her larynx. She explores meat-caves, then runs her fingernails all over my vocal chords. The air makes eye contact. Wrestling air to a whisper. Crawling out of like a firefly. Houseplants deathly like heat. Louie lions a carcass. I climb on her shoulders. Slightly hunched as it’s a tiny room. Telephone with plastic cups for a receiver. Holding my voice with my other hand. Walking the distance up to Louie’s mouth. She disappears into rope. She jabs time. Beleaguered, I down my throat into her eyes. She becomes thinner. The sword goes into the sword, further deflating her. She slinks away, fingers glued to her head. Shrinking to the size of a search lamp. Louie running toy trucks past the bedroom. My Mother slinging gin across my mouth. Louie’s hand dragging a red glint across the sword. The cat comes in. Crawls onto the sofa bed. Hops down, up and into my larynx. Louie shrinks words by my neck.

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for weeks out of laziness i have been

staring at a bowl of oatmeal, and blue mold mold exposure from certain types of mold, blue mold or stachybotrys ... i love oatmeal but ...

full of blue mold. i touch it, the surface of the mold spore,  touch the mold. ingest

blue dust rising through a shaft of sunlight blue mold inhalation blue mold party lets get together SIDS (Sudden Infant Death Syndrome) may actually be related to mold exposure.

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I have your face tattooed over my face. It hurt but it was worth it. It was Halloween and I never looked back. When your face is on my face it moves the way it always has. It makes the same small noises. They sound encouraging. When the swelling finally goes down I plan to sit across from you at a long table. You will grin and I will make the same grin back. We will hold these positions while we eat. We will be like two hostages in a violent movie, planning an escape into the hills. In the hills we hope to find cabins and fresh water. We want to learn new kinds of music. Find space to raise our tattoos right. Admittedly we know nothing about the hills. The hills are getting closer all the time. They make quiet demands of us. The hills want us to live in them year round. To lie on top of us as we improve around them. I put my face next to your face and for a moment the outline of the hills seems clearer. It is breathing on the window. Knocking on the door. I am cancelling my plans. I am making new appointments. I am getting the hills tattooed across my neck and shoulders. My back and thighs. The soles of my bare feet.

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Bob Schofield is a person who has decided to put stuff on the internet for other people to enjoy/despise/be indifferent towards.

He makes comics at anothertower.com

He hoards his narcissism at bobschofield.tumblr.com

i bought a cheap bottle of red wine to bring with me to drink before we left. i wasn't a wine drinker, so i hadn't contemplated needing a corkscrew to open the bottle. i tore the paper away and stared at the cork, shoved deep in the neck. i took my keys out of my pockets and attempted to scrape it down and claw through the cork but it was futile. i grew impatient and went outside and broke the neck off the bottle on the front porch. i held the bottle up just above my lips and let the wine drain into my mouth. i felt the tiny shards of glass stick in my throat before they touched my lips. i coughed and spit up red liquid. it was impossible to tell the difference between the warm wine and the blood. i realized what a terrible idea this had been. i should have gotten vodka. 

i don't even fucking like wine.

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She just stood there and stared as a catastrophe was unraveling before her with a calm composure. She stood there. She just stood there. I don’t know what other people were thinking as they were frantically trying to fix the situation while, this young woman could have done something... should have done something... just stood there.

Maybe she felt at ease. Maybe she had given up. Maybe she just accepted that things were going to fall apart eventually and that she could wait until it was finished to clean up the mess.

But she just stood there, watching. 

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babies incessantly kick 

pleading for attention 

they ponder the future of the nasdaq

the legality of their parent's 12 litre suvs

when their Netflix renewal is due 

and whether they should bother trying to make this relationship work

                          fake glitter-coated roses to alter the ambience of Nathan Adrian's spa

                          he smirks and whispers "I'm adding sparkle to your pool" gravelly

                         "coat me in gold leaf and snort a gram of cinnamon, 

                          now's the time to party"

strip clubs in Mazar to help fuel the coke addiction of white pigeons

the Coppola-in-denial makes an appearance

                  and gets stoned   

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Minutes turned to hours morphed to days evolve to weeks blurred to months and now I’m older and non the wiser.

Eyes red from pixilated interactions with animated spam bots. Crawling through comment threads looking for a fight. Sinking further into a black hole. A 16-inch abyss manufactured by a factory in China. Dozens of hastily conceived usernames and password combinations, clever at the time, but quickly forgotten – shuttled off to the nether region of the internet wasteland.

Search engines cataloguing my mind, remembering what I forgot. I confess to this machine, I lie to it. I throw up everything with its help.

My mood depends on my wi-fi signal. Its bars, a staircase to the heavenly stratosphere of www.mindlessbliss.com.

It is here that I exist instead of live. Here that I feign strength when all I want to do is give up and leave it behind me. We have learned nothing, not we, me. I have learned nothing. Decades later I’m nothing more than an electronic Timothy Leary, mumbling a mantra to “turn on, tune in, and drop out.”

I keep telling myself that it will be fine. That no matter what I’m safe behind my propagated profile. The grass is always greener in the other tab,I tell myself as I wait for the page to load.

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When I spoke too loud, my mother would remind me: “In this house, we whisper.” She would put her finger up to her mouth and say it, “in this house - in this house -  in this house”. If I was running toy trucks along the ground, yelling out the window, playing telephone with plastic cups and rope, or perfecting my competitive “slam prayers” with my brother, she would say, “in this house, we whisper.” Every time she said it she would become tinier. “In this house, we whisper,” she would say, shrinking to the size of a houseplant . “In this house, we whisper”, she would say, shrinking to the size of a cat. “In this house we whisper”, she said, then shrank to the size of a firefly. She jumped up and crawled into my mouth. She slid down my throat into my larynx. She spelunked around with a search-lamp glued to her head. She found my words, harsh and coarse  and mean-spirited, took out a sword and detached the power consonants and the harsh p’s and dicey sibilants from them, then leaped up, grabbed my words by the neck and wrestled them to the ground. She jabbed my words with the sword, deflating them. She picked up the words and slung them across her back like a lion carcass, then climbed up my vocal chord, up my larynx, and crawled out of my mouth, sword in hand, hopping down to the floor. She slinked away in the distance like a beleaguered Joan Of Arc, holding my voice in one hand, dragging the sword in the other hand, walking with her shoulders slightly hunched, a red glint in her eyes as she disappeared in the next room, not looking back to make eye contact, until she disappeared into the air, herself a whisper.

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Everyone thinks I’m very nervous but the truth is that I’ve got a little ghost in my throat that makes it hard to speak. It bobs up and down in my oesophagus and I gulp intermittently like a small child accidentally swallowing a jawbreaker again and again. It tiptoes across my moist insides, tickling my muscles in sections. It’s very distracting.

Once I tried telling a story but the ghost got excited and I could only make gurgling noises. It was a very cute story about kissing leaves. Each leaf could grant a wish as your lips touched on it, but only a small wish, like “I wish for a bag of crisps” or “I wish my mother wears a blue jumper today.” In the story, a tiny insect would often wish that the person she loved would be given a free mug of tea that day, or that his hair would shine a little more, and then she would flit around after him to watch her little wishes come true. She spent her whole life doing that (her life was only one day long, but that doesn’t make her endeavour any less lovely), and as she was dying she felt completely satisfied.

Of course thanks to the ghost in my throat, no one heard my story. Instead it came out like this: “gu gu gugugu ghuuuuu glllllllliiiib gluhhh guuu ffff pllllb fllllp gggggllllb glij kkkllp lubbb blup gfff yuuu uuu uh uhhhg diiilp blubbbbb bbb bb ggglu gulllluuugugugugug ghu.” 

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