#alientalk

I feel like an alien tbh. So weird like I don't belong on this earth, nor do I want to be here? Animals are good tho maybe we don't have any on my home planet and that's why I'm here

every world born through a new myth: on the backs of colossal turtles or in the winding guts of snakes, with the taste of red apples still soaked into your gums or while watching skeletal towers rise from the glassy surface of a sleeping pool. unable to inhabit a space completely and unwilling to re-sculpt the dysfunctionally complex details of your existence, you decide to create a creation story of your own. but the pen's small plastic tank seems perpetually faulty, and it chokes on its own black blood every time you attempt to make sense of the plot. here's what you have so far: fur tousled, lying on the highway, body filling with sun. it takes involved training to fly a plane and the same goes for landing; thousands of micro processes commence with the spark of life, and thousands more commence once that spark vanishes and leaves the house dark. autolysis and the molecular surrender to gravity; protein filaments turn into the trembling freeze-frame of an old VHS tape. the body's internal police force has disbanded in light of the recent apocalypse, leaving bacteria to multiply and run amok. ancient fauna and flora reclaiming empty structures. vines in veins. moss in muscle. you pull the pen from the paper like you disengage a kiss, half expecting a cord of saliva to arc between them. is this a creation story or an epilogue? fur tousled, lying on the highway, the roar-hum of traffic mirroring the whisper-hum of decay. the god of retroreflective paint experiences a brief spasm between the concept of shoulder blades and a metaphorical spinal column, as the body's escaping hemoglobin makes contact with a yellow minus sign separating lanes. the god collapses inward like a cardboard box or a music stand. its devoted familiars are roads; land that has been trampled by foot and machine in the advancement of a journey time over and time out- the majority of the planet, technically, but in every realm there exists the expectation of basic co-habiting etiquette, and this god would not willingly infringe on the ego-territory of the gods of arson victims or provocative art installations. your wrist is full of bee stingers and cramps and flexes into V's both inside out and outside in. have we forgotten? the activating neurotoxins of being in love. the planet lets out a steely yawn. asphalt goes from baking to burning, cracking into spiderwebs and snowflakes to gaping chasms and unhealable wounds. dozens of drivers depress their horns in useless, panicked protest. an eighteen-foot-wide gap in the earth stretches open beside the body and tilts the surrounding concrete. the body slides, limp, into the blackened envelope, which is promptly licked and sealed by the god of retroreflective paint. a stamp is applied to the upper right corner. you should know there is a binding chemical that happens to exist in the bodies of canines called dicarboxylic acid, which is an active ingredient in the alkyds used in the majority of traffic marking substances. but this is not why the god took the dog. how could you have let yourself been born into a world that is fully constructed by endings and laid on a purchased patch of the painfully linear understanding of nonlinear laws? a world purchased on a patch of nicotine and placed on the upper arm? to live feeling like a conspiracy theory, to live blurring lines and occupying spaces between spaces, like the gaps in the grates of the gutters, like the gaps between fingers, with fingers of your own, that are not your own, and what does that say about the fingers wrapped around yours? and are you recalibrating their entire system just by existing? are you creating a dissonance just by having been created at all? there's all these words fumbling and tumbling and fucking around, and all of them just barely brush against meaning like two soft knuckles across the fly of your pants. and there's the flush and the reaction and the illusion of touch but this language never makes you come because you're always too busy leaving, always arranging another in-skull exodus, always filtering and dividing pieces of you between pieces of other people who remind you of the person your parents wanted you to be, who your pets trusted you to watch them, who your lover promised they could become, who your therapist told you to call in emergencies, who the sides of your wrists split to make room for, who your nightmares keep drowning over and over and over. and yet. here we are. the pen runs dry.

#alientalk #👻

Pippppiiiiririririripiripipi.