Watching self-spec’d boys apply makeup on one of my monitors. Such perfect brush strokes; calculated nodes pulling colour onto facial landscapes against a soundtrack of hushed voices and mechanical voyeurism. Angled lines connect with exquisite precision, and the resulting visual coaxes me into a strange heat.
and my envy is the emotional equivalent of swallowing glass.
Are my bones not fucking good enough??
and tasted god.
She was the transcendence of parasite life—more. Beyond the genetic limitations of my species, she was a star-devouring symbiote with a voice like a chasm; deep with the absolution of gravity and mind-destroying subsonics.
I can’t remember when she infected me, but it was goodgoodgod—
She burrowed inside, and had the sweetest monopoly over my organs and ate me
outfrom the inside out
—and left my chest gaping with open revelation after she left.
During my stillest moments, when I’m far away from the daily tumult of dead-system raiders and meteor fields, my thoughts drift to you and in a swell of self-damnation, all I remember is how beautiful you are to me and your perseverance under the corrosion of illness and how I’ve failed you and how I dream about you in hypersleep and how the trajectory of your existence is so frustratingly far from mine. I think about the vulnerable axis of coordinates that marked our meeting on that M-Class planet and the first time you really began to share yourself with me, and I know that we could never return to that exact temporal rift because space is an incomprehensibly fickle and unforgiving vacuum, but I miss you and I hope you can one day find me worthy of you.
where intersexed porn stars copulated with Plutonian ice slugs to a soundtrack of 21st century aggrotech classicals. I was an angry, rotten girl. That must’ve been how she’d caught me.
Now she’ll slip in through the exposed electrical wiring in the ceiling of my Section X-8 hovel, and descend upon me in a self-reconfiguring cloud of alien nanotechnology and arousal.
Sometimes it’ll hurt, especially when she’d gnaw lipstick-coloured flesh wounds into my collarbones, and force my piteously human body into submission by geometry: my limbs an assembly of perpendicular angles and erogenous discomfort.
Other times, she wouldn’t hide coyly behind her domination.
We’d take off our clothes, and I’d get to count all of her eyes. The sinuous landscape of her body’d be bejeweled with them; blinking and glittering like irradiated stardust; laden on the curves and crevices of her that I’ve tasted, and their numbers were never the same.
She always laughed at me because I only had two.
I’ve also learned to stare right into the eyes of people who gawk at me and watch their gaze shy away; it’s an exceptional display of social dominance.
Have you ever stared at a word so long that your deeper mind strips away any remnants of linguistic recognition, and the letters themselves pervert into sigils of an alien civilization?
Or chant a word so often that its shape mutates and splices under your tracing tongue, even though your vocal-syllabic assembly remains unchanged, resulting in fissures of temporal displacement?
try it today
The New Muse is a displacement of humanity in a parasitic flesh cage.
Brain-starved, I unhinge my jaw and cannibalize it for the desirous evolution of my stimuli. A vacuum seal of lips and teeth fellates columns of new information.
Hypertext burns away in my gut, and my body extracts its nutrients.
Sated, I regurgitate the bones of The New Muse, while dataprose and bile sparkle upon the chalice of my mouth.
but my edges fray in the delicately habitable places where our galaxies converge.
A lone distress signal echoes throughout my universe; it oscillates and distorts with a sweetness unknown to itself, and that very beauty rearranges the ordinance of my stars.
and watch your gravitational influence in motion. Your coterie of admirers are active in their orbit, and with good reason— you’re unlike anything I’ve ever seen; resplendent in your strangeness.
One of them mewls something sweet to you.
Your skin does not betray your flustered state, but I know that a wet heat coalesces underneath it.
I want to be the one to peel away your human suit and set it free.
where the human fragrance sweetens to the ripeness of biology, and the inevitability of imagination.
His pulse peaks through the acrid heat of a violent will to survive.
Blood vessels… a lavaliere of wet rubies at tens of thousands of miles, bend and refract light from wet eyelashes and curling toes—
—to nails and teeth; the latter, both mine.
I’m standing over a pot of hot, bubbling sludge. You know, the ancient Quaker Oat shit you’d be lucky to find in the burned out shell of your cannibalized neighbour’s house, and I’m just fucking miserable.
I’m bitter and a little rotten; real stale and outdated, and the brick of old sugar I’m just pounding into this fucking thing is only worsening the rate of my decay.
The bag was covered in ash, but it still had a handful of flakes left; enriched with synthesized nutrition for a better time, I guess. Crumbling vitamins for this blighted body won’t do shit for me, you know— It isn’t even the constant hunger pangs, or the nausea, or the dirty snow that I’ll eat at the tipping point between sobs of desperation and giving up.
It’s the fact that she left me.
She was the only reason I bothered to stay when it all went to shit. But now she’s gone and I’m left to pick off the best parts of her that haven’t been burned away by the radiation poisoning, and I’m so fucking pissed.
It looks like hair but the maggots won’t eat it.
In religious observance of the Gross Margin Quota scriptures, it is pulled and stretched wide by arthritic human hands. In commandment of the Employee Suicide verses, it is baptized in caustic chemical lakes. And on the 7.35th Hour, it finds creation: shimmering and framed by the bodies of the Manufacturing Martyrdom.
Through barbed needles and blistering blood, do my prayers spill in every puncture and evisceration. In the deepest fogs of my meditation, my skin burns and splits asunder because the Spirit of Industry makes it so. And on the 7.35th Day, it finds creation.
I am purified in my worship.
but a broken, static tide laps at the void of our shared channel.
So I ping and I wait—
No fucking signal.
But through the fracture, I find eventuality in the glittering rings of broken capillaries and wet eyelashes. Her eyes are like the cradles of dying stars, which burn away across the backdrops of her cheekbones; they are a descending obituary through the black space of her alien physiology.
I think about how such a thing would register upon my lips and my teeth. I want to know the flavour of something much older than her and I put together, and how that shard would balance upon the precipice of my tongue.
How delicious that would be.
I need to relapse into conservative drinking so that I can return to writing, even with some semblance of liquid courage because I haven’t written any prose since approximately 1500 followers ago.
7% is my prerequisite for the neurocranial conversion of ethanol into uninhibited delusion; where the mind becomes a static basin for fractured visions of Plutonian girls leaving bruise-coloured kisses on the bones of licentious cosmonauts.
I metamorphize into some sort of interstellar fetishist actually
maybe i’ll get one of those cute spiked lemonade things