STATICINSOUND54

In four days he'll have died by all accounts a confirmed Satanist, but who knows what the sky taught him. I wonder if he fell into the fold of his previous religious affiliation and formed the prayer position. His body lain to rest, draped in cloth and doused with Holy Water. To understand his faith is impossible now. It's sloppily written across the polished floor that they pay the Mexicans to buffer and tend to day in and day out for minimum wage. His final confessions weren't whispered from his dry, cracked lips but instead took shape of the tubes that lay against his tongue. Only the machines understood him now.

WAVE GOODBYE.

THIS IS A SWINDLE OF GRAND PROPORTIONS.

Inside this winged casket, we're all traveling at an astonishingly high altitude. Sandwiched like sardines while the pressure builds, we barely think to reach out after our prescription lenses as they quietly pop out of their cheap imitation frames and dance down the center aisle. The walls are slathered in a humanly stench. The cockpit is littered with mounds of ground up depressants, growing as tall as the co-pilot's reddened ankles. "Brace yourselves." We stand alert and strike a pose in a veil faultiness. Without a care left in the world, we exude thick, salty blood from a punctured sac tucked deep inside our wrinkled little guts; pouring over and filling up. Marinade for the newly-steamed carpet to soak. Calm as cattle we press our cheeks against the walls that confine us. We slowly move our heads back and forth and every which way and silently examine each bristle from the wall's prickly finish as they massage the fine hairs sprouting from our faces. This is a brief simulation of the comfort we feel we're provided by contact. Gas canisters slide out from beneath our seats on thin metal trays. They're labeled with specific instructions, letters large and bold in print. PLEASE REMOVE YOUR PANTS. INSERT PHALLUS INTO OPENING OF NOZZLE. Roughly a finger's width below, a series of illustrations depicting a man thrusting himself back and forth and gyrating his hips is shown in the following steps. The red lights in the aisle are flashing now so they must mean business. The same red lights I noticed were seemingly tacked above each row of seats a while ago. "I hope you've enjoyed your stay." The redness and the brightness of the lights are brilliant and blindingly so. I kneel down to grab the gas can and pull it to my chest, where I'll hold it. I'm anxiously waiting with my pants around my ankles. Finally, out of my clenched eyelids and through the seemingly endless light I realize that beneath the crude illustrations lies one final step: Smile.

(pay no mind)

this is what you're doing.

lying beneath the street light to put a dramatic emphasis on your coveted delta, which is newly shaved and prepared for a public demonstration. wrapping your feet around the gate to the neighbor's open mailbox, thrusting upward with your strong hindquarters. leaving little to the imagination and the space between the chapped pavement and your backside. stretching further now, raising the flag with your heel. the pressure leaves an impression on the ball of your foot, but you don't care. you're too occupied. you've got an objective, goddamnit. to guarantee the postage with your bloodstained ivories and wild eyes. eager to be had, eager to nourish and replenish those thirsty. shoveling fruit flies into the grumbling cake hole between your crusted lips.
dirty undergarments tangling your legs, tripping you up; rubbing your ankles raw in the midst of a faulty escape. pink skin, red skin, milky white skin. your canvas is bludgeoned and unrecognizable. as you're writhing uncontrollably, stems ravaging the fresh morning grass, arousing spurts of mist with each violent movement,
towering bedposts jut out of the holes in your head, shrinking with every dry moan that is reminiscent of a painfully dull drone. a coarse orchestra gushes from your throat as the insides of your cheeks crinkle with each shallow breath that follows.
jaws clenched, knuckles white, back arched. moist green strips between your fingers and clumps of dirt beneath their nails. the sunday morning dew succumbs to seduction, ejaculating an intense application of thick wetness to your porcelain features. relieved and fully coated, you let a wondrous sigh and begin to recite the english alphabet backwards in an unusually childish tone, clumsily throwing your clothes into a pile that you intend to gather as soon as you rise and find your footing. your toes dig into the muddy lawn and you sink with each frightened swell in that cage of a chest. your tired mouth is filled with mounds of earth. partially subdued, your tongue sloppily writes an apologetic letter to your friends and family although they'll never see the light of it. your nerves and muscles become tree trunks and your blood affords the wet lips of your kin.

isn't it?