Flesh and Brood

Tonight, he was loathing. Deciduous loathing that foamed and frothed up to the edge of his mattress, which was his sanity, which was where he lay. Loathing so thick it flared and became smoke, and it forked from his mouth, touching everything, imparting a dirty secret on each slicked surface. Surprised, he wondered when or where he had learned to loathe like that.

* * *

On a plane, he dreamt of oranges and sex. Things he hadn’t thought about in a long time. In these dreams, there were always three distinct realities: first, the mind; second, the physical; and third, the untamed. But he never ventured further on, into the fourth. He didn’t know what the fourth was, all he knew was what shivered in his refrigerator. A bag of oranges ripening. When he opened his eyes, the plane had yet to move from the tarmac, saturnine layers of ice on each heavy wing.

* * *

No, the penchant for trenchant prose was the same as that for porcupine reeds, he declared. The distillation of filth to bladed ego, unsheathed. Somehow, we are to understand, just as it is understood that a painting of blue daubs might resemble heads, men crossing streets, exposed breasts, and dilated eyes. Yes, we are wrong. We are right. But never mind the sunset, he concluded, someday we’ll chase a rainbow for charity instead.

[Original Post Date: ??/??/2008]

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