Amusing only to oneself. The blaring of a horrible and overwhelming siren. It spits acid in your ear, and it spits hard. You mime wrist-slashing to indicate the depth of your boredom. There is a klaxon in your dreams. A mushroom of fire blooms atop a saucer of same. The doctor who’s fucking you and his wife who doesn’t mind, they’ve kept you in a cage in the basement of the clinic, but this night you grease yourself in Vaseline and slip the bars. The three of you run through suburbs, “Come back! We didn’t mean it! He needs you! Please!” And then the alarm, the bloom, the end.
There is a dark magic in the way your mind unfolds (flowerily, lonelily) into psychosis. How your sentences are talking to themselves even as your eyes are strawberries bulging from out the front of your head. They are dry and sticky. Words are prickling with potential. They can be anything, they might even be themselves. Accusing the light of day of being malevolent, of having intention. It is never a good intention, is it? Good intentions and hell and all that, so whatever. There used to be these things called seasons.