Blue.

I could still hear him, and the sound of his skin making unconsental love to the blankets draped upon the bed’s steel frame, or rape as you would call it. With my head rested upon cold hard material, my ears wither, screaming in opposition to hearing another day start. Just a wall apart, the regular routine repeats itself as I await the same treatment after they are done with him, sending spasms through my spine involuntarily. Vivid images sprout from my brain’s degrading womb, as much as it denies their entrance. The straps at the bed are there for a reason. I can see those figures robed in white, barring his ankles and wrists as his body thrusts itself to and fro at a violent rhythm. Resistance is futile, yet nobody ever really learns the lesson. Now the needle merge with his flesh and liquid. The sound of his fingernails’ manic screeching steel reverberate in agony over a few seconds’ span and then retreats into the loud silence once again. They are done with #72.

The stench keeps me up and denies me of much needed sleep. Well, not anymore since rest is not essential in hell, for this is. They fill our nostrils with injection needles and medication, and they try to bribe our eyes with colourful pills. There’s no pot of gold at this rainbow’s end. Just more rainbows, and more pills. We aren’t children. We aren’t them who are capable of seeing more colours than a teenage boy sees in a nude model’s pores, more than a social incompetent sees etheogen. Our eyes are only left with blue and quite literally so, as our existence is now spent in the mouth of the blue walls, lukewarm and acidic. They dissolve us into nothing, subconsciously, in the absence of any explicit pain. The colour is sickly. It reminds me of a mannequin, a plastic effigy. Hold on, plastic doesn’t turn blue. It was James. Such a pretty face with not a line amiss; and such pretty blue lips, I would kiss it. But he had no shoulders to carry his head. That beautiful mannequin put me here, along with reassurance that my head would still be attached to my torso due to the fact that my brain is “made of pulp and deprived of logicality”, as the head nurse here puts it. Except that I am referred to as #93.

My name is Brian, Brian Cullen. Known around here as #93. They make us anonymous, only with numbers to label our identities. Society claims that we don’t deserve a name. They’re just afraid to acknowledge our brilliance, I’d like to think. Them and all that revolves around their trivial lives. We beg to differ. But those politicians and lawyers built upon aging tress and weary minds refuse to confirm our highly disposition. Instead, like an adolescent taken over by raging hormones, they announce their envy by taking revenge. They fail to see that once intellects like us are gone, this world would be left with lower lifeforms; to put a name to the face, them. Where did our intelligence put us? In midst of cemented blue, occasionally with gurgling red ribbons unlaced upon it or green excretion which came out from the wrong end. Even so, the men and women in white are quick at their jobs and would soon take a hose and wash our elements away from the blue cements, for they think of anything related to us as sins. As you can see, their past time is to baptize blue with holy water and call it clean once they return to their prior colour.

The cops press a revolver at our temple, cock it, place a their finger on the trigger and threatens. Not wanting our brains to end up smelling like over-fried chicken and looking worse, we have no choice left but to purchase the one way ticket to the asylum; to help those men in blue earn their living. As requital, they won’t let you out from here to inform the world of their misdoings. Trust them to have the slightest guilt conscience. And after you have been here long enough, you just disappear by and by, and fade off like a thin layer of paint. Let the blue swallow you, let them chew you bit by bit and tear you into shreds. Take your pick. “The least we could do is to provide you with a personally satisfactory way to perish,” that’s what the head nurse always whispers when nobody is around, with a wide grin plastered onto her face. Let those of earthly creations erase you from their minds, let you be gone with your sanity. They pointed their little accusing fingers at us and threw us here. Piled up in stacks, this situation holds no inert differences from a Nazi death camp. At least they get to die with their mentality still in tact. We, on the other hand, are stripped of our rationality and then left to decay among those already in the wastelands. It is no wonder to why it stinks in here. This putrid smell is namely death. Blame the blue. None of us were far from sanity before this daily date with pills and needles is forced upon us like a stepfather’s unreasonable expectations. It won’t be long before our very existence is plagued by blue and nothing but.

The validity of time is executed with the lack of clocks and I don’t seem to recall that their job definition is to drag misery on as far as possible. It’s harder to count the time without the help of two plastic hands nailed and crucified on a round face, and it serves even more a burden to pass time. Day and night are all blue, and they’re too immersed in all his woes that they have no hint of life left in them for them to beg to differ.

Them in the white cloaks. They aren’t angels; they have no wings and they have no halos. All they have are syringes backed by their iron clutches, ever so ready to bring artificial curses upon us. It’s synthetic beauty, copied and pasted into the tablets and injection liquids. Plagiarism itself is a sin. This is no Heaven.

Myy.

I smothered the sun with your name and made the moon stay, and it seems just like that time, where you made love to my abyss, to make me feel again. How you look like the Sun, look just like the Sun, but you’re not, you firefly, they’d take your wings at their heels and stray your light between their fingers. I wished you’d made them ash. But no.

I cursed and swore, I’d perish to be the quivering in your limbs, so take a walk with me. Until shine becomes you again, to caress your swell and, my palm, the heart in my hand, to hold you and be your tongue. Into the greens and dig up the roots, they’re your dust! Yours! Oh, the skin, with such gray in its cheek– you must be very sad. I pinched them between my lips to kiss you, and give you wings,

only to put you to handcuffs, so you won’t fly away.

Bubble, is your thief.

She was spewing foam in
the night again, to water
the flowers on cotton,wishing
the dews to be wet when
she took her index and her
thumb to pinch the whites
off, and out of her lips. She
took her by the hair and why,
why why why why she, said
snow makes her wary and
steals her face.
————————

She’s been spewing foam
in the night again; like
the aged tongue, and
morning beckoned her
into night, as she plucked
at the whites perched
upon lip, lip, and cunt.
Then she said it wasn’t a sin.

Leahrivers and that, give Jeremy a love.

He knew I’d stay with
him who put words on my
tongue but they don’t slip; I’d

find you accuse
in(g) me a quivering; quiver,
more so of stranger to spit but I

am not. You make red and try
me to be an average queer, to say
I sting, deep, and squat my alphabets

out, you still name me to be
void of an unknown’s tender– how
can I when your fingers savour flesh

rods. Just give them drugs a face and ban
dage their hands, to talk and love. Won’t make
you weep, so I shall starve the boil and spoil the skin.
And be the flash in your hands.

You, like ego.

Morn.

It helps me think. When a lack of eventually becomes a constant ringing laid inside your womb, growing only to perish. Slice off its lashing tongue and sew them bloated blue lips into each other; needle and thread, they can’t mourn no more. And to place that mute thing at your feet to scrutinize; doesn’t damp your ego, no. I hope suffocation greets me when the sun is just a slit along the line I drew, and be gone in solitude, (so those ovaries won’t colour themselves grey and) wither.

Morn.

Woke up amidst my self-inflicted pool of misery, of blue mourning to the tune of one’s sorrow greeting another’s wings. Emptied those smothering wet hollows and wrenched the vacuum dry of self.

Sick, sick, sick; emotions need to be intellectualised. And chant to self that you’re just one for carousing. Let the ache listen and be gone.

em&em?

I hope you chew on all
the wombs you can and plant
all the ovaries, if it’s

warm upon your buds to
flower and twist in puddles
to wet and soak in.

As long as your tongue’s
still sweet, I’d be
beneath, so pet
my leash and make me sing.

Gnaw on self.

Berate, your palm as it
ails and slurps upon
                    pages

and spit out, like bitter
cum, them sons of
ennui

words, like madmen don't
go.

Give saline.

Braid them fingers into one and stitch
them limbs; say, this (comfort) is de-
composing as it, march, a bullet wrapped
between teeth, towards August. I swear,
upon own saline and ache, she’ll go on
prowl, and shoot! you down, shoot me
down.

do(n’t) cry, and wet
them hollows, to twirl and be gone,

as you (will),
fly.

iii) Seat.

Be stale and quaver, to
napping wheels and faded
touch smothered, on gray.
In shades of sorrow and
speak, with no tongue to
roam, in foreign lands.
And a cave left to dry.

ii) Sidewalk.

Pause in cracks,
suffocated,
in midst of cemen
-t, sings of wasted
youth and rejoice in
wrinkles and all that’s
foul, foul, foul.
Don’t you spit, for the
love of god is mere ink.

i) Peel.

makes home, among filth
as it weeps its eyes of
dirt, say soil and we’ll be
a cup of coffee, yawn
ing to the morning dew,
in an unconscious wake and
tear upon cotton.

Arvo.

Paper chalk perched
between kissing lips;
exchanging saliva with
another’s sponge.
You’re more than a garden
with flowers in your tress
and rolled up weed,
making love,

to branches and throat on
an affair’s sigh.

Crawl.

I woke up to the sound of hideousness, and cracked eggs, like your fingers fondering your womb. It melts like grey. Nay, you say, have no womb, like a man does; he does? You ain’t a bloody, man, says who? Aye, I, nights are thin, wrapped twice around tear glands, and never was I up to the lungs, to breathe. Your face is sickly, I’d rather give my colours to a kneel over a porcelain built, and devour the putrid essence of others before me; now that tongues can see, mine opposes to exchange foam with, for spillage passes and yours is a case of dust. And mind you, it ain’t sunshine dust nor them on words.

Chop, chop, chop.

Spitting tongues grow on themselves, to
amplify; saliva points to the door. To perish
is to respire under your thumb, and that
dull chunk doesn’t colour its grey, draws red.
Be meat and butchered, as like to take white
little pills; tell sleep to package me as it does
to ham; make plastic a dress, because
blade and blade wants me to be asexual;
would be once kitchen utensils, inside your
palm, shake hands with me. Say, hello.
Hello.

Talking Back.

Nietzsche, save! An animal
and bear me in your lungs;
inhale me to be dust,
and choke.
Pale knuckles hold crayon
and delivers itself blood;
it talks of fear and befriends
me.