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De-Loused in the Comatorium Storybook

De-Loused in the Comatorium Storybook

"De-Loused in the Comatorium Storybook" は、セドリック・ビクスラー・ザヴァラとジェレミー・マイケル・ワードが書いた短編小説。1stアルバムの『ディラウズド・イン・ザ・コーマトリアム』はこの小説をもとに制作されたコンセプト・アルバムである。

小説の主人公、'Cerpin Taxt' はセドリックの友人で1996年に自殺したフリオ・ヴェネガスをモデルにしている。また、偶然にもアルバムがリリースされる1ヶ月前、ジェレミーはヘロインのオーヴァードーズで亡くなった。

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          Cerpin taxt stood high above the wobbling miscarriage of oncoming traffic, he was weak in the knees. Blackened out of synch knew his time here would soon end with an internal hemorrhaging made aware by the animonstrosity of his frankenstatue presence. No longer would he carry on his shoulders the weight of passion. No where were his next of kin to be found. Automotive surges spilled through the veins below him. Was this the only passage that he could find? Sweat adorned the unmoped of his brow, he couldn’t possibly turn back. His jaws jingled with cold studdering, his stomach bulged midmetamorphosis, grumbling knot belches,too nervous to look down into the inviting concrete collision. He served himself no other choice.

          Between two mountains that claimed some half assed biblical truth, Cerpin knew better, as it had been etcha-sketched with the branding of a caveat emptor,scarlett with with rheumatic shakes. Cashed... beyond mocking belief, this one last hit would spin him and ring him through the mud. He’d always been denied, but this time he didn’t want to wait outside while the party raged on without him.

          The rail that adorned the top of the bridge pulsated a cape of winced shut on looking. Cars drove past in amazement....“who the fuck was that wing nut, doing his trapeze act?” thought one commuter as he shot by. “ama... mira el muchacho va brincar!” screamed a thirteen year old girl trying to flag her parents’ attention, racing by in a beat up truck filled brink wise with landscape tools. A few miles up the street, the band played on. Springs coiled tightly in the tendons of his legs......they were ready. His tears smoldered into the afternoon air, no one could stop this now. He wondered in flashback stanzas, omitted from this reality, his body took form...half-moon die cast on a February dive....an emblem for all to see....unamused compound of fractures, brittely awaiting for the portal to open...plummeting in the pupil,craving a mute resolve.” I’ll fucking show them" gathered a light wind past his face, defecating a verse that sang “yo ya me voy, y nadien me recordara.” he smiled from his chandelier vantage point, inaudible to the ribbon mic tenderness of his naked iris hearing device. Waiting for the opportunity, wilting in sin...the cat among the pigeons could now pounce back into the arms of his true family. Slicing of one last breath, sparking diamonds in the headlights, forever stained in maroon stamps.

          Cerpin had always been a little overly possessed by his chimerical scribblings. Between lunch breaks and during class, maybe even in his sleep you would find him drawing neo-cultures, diseased and grotesque. That was the portal he created, getting dirty in the nails, small hairs yanked always a canvas moment waiting in the wings.This served its purpose well, as he was malnourished without the outlet. So vividly they spoke to him, committed to its paper. He never noticed if anyone else could hear them too..... no matter really, because it's what they said...and how they said it. they were infatuated with each other from the get of their disturbance. He knocked on doors that everyone else knew had no exsistence. Spiral notebooks lending variety in the medium. Ouija boarded inch by gasp, slow notion in their claps, center psalm lesions of grandeur... imbred petting within bald of point conceived infatuation, clad in flat ash waiting to be rejected, always waiting to be defective. un juramento sin forma,....me escape de las montanias, salte veneno...scalpula failed to release. You could say he was whipped by the argot of his outlet. Cerpin taxt, ever the ardent underdog...and of this was born a pig stye pavilion of dribbling hieroglyphics. He needed to be needed. Longing for scores, unzipped face deformed expatriate. They were meant for each other. They defined one another, and soon they would be one.

          Wait now....hadn’t this all happened before? Traced back in years. Recalling the events, there was a venom in numerical tries. An autocrat in waitng,unknown to himself even....he started losing grip. The sangfroid hunchback that was held together by electric ligature, was always finding it harder and harder to stay alive, let alone make amends in the eye of his storms. This had happened before.

          On an opaque afternoon, fending for himself, in the wake of a mistake, Cerpin was caught on guard in the line of quarrelling fire. A closed can of inebriation had found its way between his own crosshairs striking him in the cranium. A class of migraine unto itself. Maybe he had asked for it? Maybe it was the excuse he needed to traverse the borderland of clairaudient dwellings. Through aneurysm vespers, in the cabinet were the means.To smithereens of an aching argument, he left the point of impact, yeah he left it for broke to medicate his wounds. Maybe he had made a mistake, but mistakes are what his dreams were made of.

          Supple and warm, came the covers over his body. That handful of morphine his mother left behind when she died sure came in handy. This was the hit that marked the beginning. In and out of reality for one week on end, his residency would live in infamy. It was here that they would first make contact with him, the autocrat in waiting, fighting to stay alive.

          He had been nominated.....tagged and placed within the high water flood of twisted necks, banging mainline swandives\cold gizzard to the easing of his confusion. we had studied his slithering new fangled strut from abroad. True prince among the living dead. A wicker at wits end, sweltering an oracle of muse, stuck upon inoperable amputechture, whose flesh wounds felt him thud the ground each time gangs of obstacle contusions buried him zealot deep in stupor. with his armor of broken skin, he had now become a carcass of caricature immune to the slashing on his right fretted arm, mending a hand me down impression dressed in revenant shardes. One who had drunk with the owls, with neuce in left hand, showered by lacerations that poured as loud and quick as sand. Magnet for the wielding of knives, with a handless desert of lapwing practicing on his punching bag heart. stacked against a tidal wave of formative droves, making all his advances imperially morose. Bodies can only take so much wear and tear before they collapse.

          Now the hurdles, they stood in q’s dwarfing one another in size and shape. They seemed to throw themselves at his body, puncturing with cesspools,inseminateing a passive aggressive whiteout that lit his hair on rooted nerve ending. Mala suerte that reduced him to a ruble of incoherent belligerence. So as not to add to the demons that leached under his socket of eyes, people would walk the other way when they saw him hypnotized. His tongue became a cluster of stolen hinges unable to close sentences. To decipher riddles imbede in mud. Hunted by a bulletin of languistics, playing dead for keeps, and its sick to all who couldn’t see, how he could float to the brink with pain by his side, flirting with the insomnia of daft parasites. You could hear him sing in his sleep,"con cada cuerpo que estranes mas, este varco se olvido como a nadar." He had been salvaged almost every other time, but this one would brake the foundation that he built from the inside.Unconventional and undeniable. A Tremulant megaphone calls….

          That is until we brimmed the ballots with the grins of bloodlet nominations, punctual and factual.

After all he created us. What would we be without our beloved bull legged hex of a leader. An empty throne for the Tremulant regime was an unfitting glove left with pistol grip persuasion. and so our plan unfolded- born of hatchet faced spindels, a conspiracy that reared its mug shot at the shores of nedra queret. A pinched swerve found at the bottom of a manmade throat, that was carved into stalactite teeth, and bandaged with the charm of taffeta webs. To some it was known as the orifice of the underworld;stuffed with loons that helped bat Cerpins eyes, where endorphins made carnage from an insulant pride. Through out the years it had become a lair made of murals that drifted out of tar and thin air. Belched of lab coated meat hooks caught on spinal column thorns.... found within a planet surrounded by the grave rings of nervosa, with its mote floating on an axis suspended in time. Filled with the remnants of an earth bound portal triangular in scope..........where defeated, Cerpin lay growing in some tattered pit of stomach; a convalescent home of croaking entrails, mangled by the pettiness of insignificant others. On this black and white planet roared boils upon its shores, nesting bedwetting for our heir to the throne.

          Many a sun did pass before the house of Tremula Metacarpi was to decide upon a new leader, and

who better than the afore mentioned neoinfidel known as Cerpin taxt. probably the loneliest hull of a man that we tremulants had ever layed eyes on. He resided in the manacle sect of mundy, one of many small caves that overlooked the shanty town of rezjua, engrossed in shadows of curdled blades flashing themselves in the broad daylight piss of kinetic cleansing.

          With immense fever we handpicked the irradi excerpts from the guilty library of half-truths. A book of suspended impact. How-to manual that taught seduction through the art of suicide. Chapterless void of crass ultimatums, liberally adopting the monthly blood of human conversions. It was with the aid of this manual that set the snails into a marmoset of momentum. Each page wrapped itself around Cerpin, raping its way into his body. For it was by his hand that that we were damned to live in motion sick stills of bone colored paper. By his ink cult of prods that begot him his only children. Yet the ragman of mundy knew nothing of his next to kin. the ones he abandoned in a stationary of underwater flu. So it had begun with a blunt caress of affection from the Cerphim Neuralgia, who summoned him with a warrant towards the canvas of his face.......thus administering a morphined carriage of admission. The gates of thanos were now spread eagle wide.

      {Cerpin mumbles a costpital riddle}

          They had imagined me as catastrophic....felt an anxious excrement scathing directions from inside my rib cage. slouched over pointing Gums at porcelain, aching max occupancy, mocking efficiency. I’m starting not to feel the left side of my face, staring at a field of numb quilted walkers. Mangled around an ectopic horse feed on mute. I’ve painted my limbs with the black of my own ashes. Can’t see the lightswitch when the lights were torn off, from its canal of wrist cuts. Can’t feel my way past the obvious....must make neck tender......adorn it with perforation.......they had imagined me as beaten and disfigured, across a stretched carpet of pinkslip deadlines. they beckon from a stomach wall lining, hung by jurors, gaffels at attention.

          “You have been brought here by way of your own device. you stand there drenched in guilt, a sentence you can not deny. To the outer reaches you will find find bipolar chance. You are here by banished for the crime of attempt. Aboard the televator hides, the ESP will take you by the serving of your time,” spoke the gentle infant voice of unhydriate.....purgatory strategist. Perpetual lepers who protected the check mates.“To draw bedpost sight from deathbed dirt,” chanted the lepers with their map fresh out of wrinkles, fallen face penance first. Mosaic intervals jonesing imminent mistakes,“followed by the stilting of glass candle lights”, they wept.“For tunnels will lend you a route of repenting escape” they kept chanting, repeating hymns into the esp impure...........“three cuts into the slattern conscience lurks the altan sarsen elections” intervened the Tremulants in a whispering of thought, observing the trials from their maddox oracle “dragging a fire under the sheets of sadav commania” rebutted the Tremulants unseen to the lepers........“where you will reach a fear,” continued the lepers, “that mirrors a view that is closer than it appears, in your sleep where you will find the greatest of all lies..........the insignificance of others....”

          And such was their sentence. Prescription unfilled left clenching in my hand. What was it that I had done ? I could not remember. Where was i going ? The lepers had said their piece and all across the the council of unhydriate, the eyes had it. They prepared my craft in which i was to travel in. Adorned it with amoebas as a means of autopilot automation, for it was reapers who would man the ship. fastened on a seat of arachnids that swarmed my face and penetrated my mouth so as to gut me of cabin pressure. By the time the spiders had tied my body down I began to feel my eyes secret steam and blood. I felt my equilibrium trade places with my lungs. My feet became walls my back ruptured open with choirs of latitude, flapping wings that had spread an ephemeral rush that began to convert my into a hibernating jet propelled larvae. I squirmed into position, vomiting rigor mortis settling in, and then it happened. A grapnel of thick neon quagmire shot open and sank me through the continuum of time and space itself. The lepers had successfully accomplished their task, in their punishing of my wayward act. From their lodges of sweat sang the gallows birds of unhydriate. Singing songs of excommunication into a scape of infra recon spectra probation. Lunged into nightmare inside the ESP impure. It was the attempt that fell victim to the shackles in this limitless soar, voicing the stark plea of,“let us nurse this viper in the bosom of your sewers.” “impeso en la sala de tivrones, un pais escrito con el noche. from the prickpatch of poppy fields exhumed under the tremble of lock and key. on this deaf night of crossed eyes...donde me perde. My first attempt will cripple at the door of atrophy, ests son las viajes antes que me fui...”-Cerpin taxt

     son et lumiere;

          clipside of the pink eye flight I’m not the percent you think survives. I need sanctuary in the pages of this book. Gestating with all the other rats, nurse said that my skin will need a graft, I am of pock marked shapes, the vermin you need to loathe…

     inertiatic esp;

          Now I’m lost…now I am lost. Last night i heard lepors, flinch like birth defects, it’s musk was fecal in origin as the words dribbled off of its chin, it said, “I’m lost........now i am lost......,” Dolls wreck the minced meat of pupils, cast in oblong arms length. The hooks have been picking their scabs, where wolves hide in the company of men. It said, “I’m lost.....now i am lost.......” Are you peaking in the red ?

          Perforated at the neck. What of this mongrel architect, a broken arm of sewers set, past present and future tense; clip side of the pink eyed fountain......“Now I’m lost......now I am lost,” it’s been said, long time ago you’ll be the first and last to know....you’ll never know….you’ll never know.

          {fetal positioned in the stalkingyard}

          His pupils twitched lightly, subtle panic aroused in his crystal eyes. Found himself in a sore of

molastic putrescence that covered him entirely. It appeared to be a placenta like cocoon, that tore itself out of a pore in the cement. Procured by a heat lamp of dry heaves, misplaced in an oil slick of coat hangers, that lanced off the beggars torso slityard, with its rusted cars, barrel fires and vagrant argot. “I too haven’t eaten for days,” said the bum clutching warmth by the barrel outside. They had seen brighter days, minus cutty sark pauses, in and out of cells in their empty slit pocket. “What of the quarters that house the weary bones of tranquil fatigue, where might I find a bed of sand to stake my keep” Cerpin asked, unable to get a response....long pause continued....fingers unable to commit to the pointing. Seasonal winds made amends with the inquiry, draining a draft that turned his attention to a dilapidated boxcar swaying, shuttering in the dark and empty slityard. The silence grew deafening, eye contact impaled on a nail of denial. "Pull up a rail. It rumbles with the girth of early bird squeals," said one vagrant, “ponte trucha”, said the other.

          The jettisoned grounds seemed damp with lethargy, crisp with eggshell walks. Careful not to graze the taste that grew restless, mouthing off this sleeping leviathan. Without question, adorned by the heckling winks of the vagrants, Cerpin made his way to the jaundiced colored boxcar. It looked like a prescription bottle filled with tablets of multi colored seagulls. Trapped inside were the shrieks of lap steel cackles, half hearse, half tree stump unearthed were heard. It sat there maliciously waiting with splintering inner jokes. “si no te importa me duermo aqui,” coughed Cerpin, ready to close shop, shrinking his styes. “Three corneas, two feet, septic skin and gimp swagger” crooned one vagrant. “Que chingaos quere deser eso?” snapped Cerpin. “You’ll see,” he sneered back centrifugally hoarse in premonition. “It is the lepers who sing out the sentencing that brought you here, as you harbor rabid saunces, swimming up the portal of tomorrow’s dead tongues” claimed that thick scented homeless gravel, trembling binge tremors.

          In the distance ......something drew closer and closer to the slityard, circling around the bed where Cerpin taxt laid. It replicated prowl cars closing the kill, eye brows perked in wonder, yet unconscious and deceitful. “I need to sleep off the unease that queses this howling metal buffalo”........and as sleep crept in, the doors choked closed with a card sharpened crack, awaken by shivers and millipede tacks. Strobelighting manic submission, where murder premeditated as conversation, ran on a lynching of phonetic hurdes. Trampolened by empty streets “Que hermoso eres sin tu cara,” fisseld the virulent poison. Panic fetched to a writhing......walls and ceilings made canyons out of my body. Jagged wood sculpted cuts in all the right places, smiling in flesh water burials, decapitated shrugs in headless lust isles. “How could this happen, I’m in a trunk welted by pencors planted as decoys, sticky syphillistic up the neck of cranes and nightingale files...where I’d sooner drink the poison”...paced the voice in his head, neckbroken of grunts, from roller coasted rattles unkept in this new found hostel. “What sort of train have i slept in tonight?”....his mother then held him and said, “you have arrived.” “Stumbled upon a slipstream of stubble and rash urine stains, where the warming of marrow drew comfort from this blanketless train. An insulin coma, baring the mark of Tremula Metacarpi; an executrix at play in the cargo of Thanos”-anonymous

     roulette dares{ the haunt of...};

          Transient jet lag ecto mimed bison, this is the haunt of roulette dares. Ruse of metacarpi, caveat emptor....to all that enter here. Open wrist talk back again in the wounded of its skin, they’ll pinprick the witness in ritual contrition. The am trinity fell upon asphyxiaderailed, in the rattles of…. made its way through the tracks of a snail slouching whisper, a half ass commute through umbilical blisters. Specter will lurk, radar has gathered....midnight neuces from boxcar cadavers. Exoskeletal junction at the railroad, delayed. It’s because this is......cranial bleeding, leaches train the living - cursed are they who speak its name. Ruse of metacarpi,caveat emptor to all that enter here. Exoskeletal junction at the railroad delayed, it’s because this is…..rattling the laughter hinges splintering inside.. bludgeoned to a saddle, rang the cloister bell inside…inside….Exoskeletal junction at the railroad delayed…Exoskeletal junction at the railroad delayed.. it’s because this is…

          {into a graveyard of slattern mobilization}

          Pneumonia mosque breath, capsizing ditches on a plank, epileptic with seizures. Broke into the cylinder rings, now nervosa was set catatonic and spent....“Tira me a las aranas! rompe me el osico! di me....di me ....vete ala chingada!” I screamed suddenly awakened skidding hollow disorientation, left squirming with pulsing rust barter, raised the dice of entrails as a white flag.....yet i had been stapled to the deck of a refuse barge, gagging on the fumes of embalming fluids. Lost in shallow mote. Pinned down by whom it may concern, and there were others. Squeals for help need not apply, for not a soul was heard for miles. But how was I too to feel the lathering of conversations past, teething of infantile pants, clawed fingers scraped against the hush of broken craft.......under their breath the length of waves untuned...scattered helm of safeties perception. My ear canals did not lie, there was something there, baiting me for the instance. my designated means kept slamming up against what i made out to be other ships, but I really couldn’t tell from my position. All i knew was that the impacts occurred every three minutes or so. I was shut down by inhalants floating about, when i thought to myself, “This is fait accompli by the evening.” Forming inscisional tunnel vision, where I could only see upwards , I began to try to toss and turn, so that I could break free from the grip of the staples.....three inches deep and three inches wide. I wasn’t going anywhere.

          That night as it was permanent night, I feel asleep to the rumble hunger unseated in my works. Passed out from the heat and began hearing the voices again. Only this time they were left of center in the distance, almost talking in their sleep. Jerked from slumber, one of the other ships had rammed my barge, tearing my back from the hold of the staples, as the small of my back, shined popped blisters filled of raw pink skin. With my right arm free, I gained strength and pulled my upper body from the clench bitten of staples. The night breeze scorched the skin of its virgin paper, and broke it into a scab colored branding, birthmarked to the bone. I looked around in utter silence.

          Down below me i could see a black and white sphere....sullen and unnerving. Floating in a graveyard of abandoned submarines that circled the magnificent dot as a ringed mote. Had I been here before? What sort of deja vu was it tricking in my scalp?....Like a picture that I had d....r....a...............all this and still not a single person in sight. I didn’t know how much longer to take it. Every breath I took taxed me. I slayed meager to the second. Only had the salt water of the rings to fill my tired body with. Then I heard them again. Footsteps belittled by laughter. I jumped onto another sub, and followed my concrete sense of radar, but couldn’t pin point where it was coming from. From vessel to vessel, until I fell on a APL K19 Russian sub. It was riddled with pagan alphabet graffiti....empty. The water began to shiver in a frenzy, and before I knew it, the whole mote was awash rapid; a convulsion storm. I hid inside the K19, while a hail outside began to fester. Thunderous gaps of passages relieved itself from above, slinging itself at the water, hemorrhaging epical proportions. A tell tale noise swore down leveling.......I saw them all.........a thresher 593’s skylarking in bellyflopped strolls.......widowmakers.....a uss waltzer.....every unliving kind of sub possible. Through the scope of the K19, with flinches, it precipitated a monumental wreckage, laying waste to the landfill.. when the calamity had subsided, I ventured out side. There it fucking was....vessel impaled upon vessel, scathing a hue silhouette of rats birthing through mouths, tail ribbed insertion of catheter mountains left menstruating on vessel upon vessel, diuretic in conception.....phlegmed of scrap heap clumps. Overpopulated dysentery spills. Where had it all come from, soaking up the water growing scarcely visible. I was able to construct pathways from the debris that littered itself everywhere. Leapt onto a copper tinted sub given the moniker ECTOS 333. Plucked from seaside, same as the others....nobody home. Was i the only one there ? I glanced to the left and spotted a slogan written on the side of the boat. It was a bit undecipherable, covered by years of decay, weather worn wet and peeling. I squatted down for a closer read...it said....“it is decided that all gods must die.....so as to maintain social and cosmological order, moattilliatta remains merciful and vengeful.” I really hadn’t the faintest idea. I knew nothing of this superstitious ramble tangent inconsistency; perhaps of a populist consensus. No comprehension as to why I could even read it, seeing as how it was written in a language never seen or heard of before.

          Held my patience for the voices to bubble up again, but all grew quiet,all remained calm. Strolled along the other subs, in search of food, blankets anything really. Must have traveled around in leap years for what seemed like forever. The loneliness collected in resin filled corners, smeared up and down these ghastly waters. A permanence of night can do wonders for the imagination I and didn’t need more of it. Cramp laked the jostling and brittle coating of my bones, sank sicker to a stick, made up of mirage bruises. Clotted myself, chewed on my own skin. drifting in and out, fits of repetition. Fell drowsy frail and heavy....heavy on the eyes....heavy on the palms...heavy on the concrete........heavy towards the light....plastering vagueness brushing along swaying.....immediately I came to, finding myself engulfed by the voices. Verse vacuum I had to make a brake for it. I began shoveling across the mourners, crimping at the alarms, looking for a safehouse. Frantic jibberish spurting inconspiritly, swallowing tongue, swept for shelter, gutted bloated and tired. Had to find the K19 to hide my hyde from the spare part fallout. Sure its frame could withstand such a pounding....and from the heavens sliced open an entry, in the grimacing downpour glistened of hades. Near its defecation peak, I managed to see the winking from afar. Felt my arms torque forward the stealth of all appendages.....ran in formation towards primate arching, swallowing terrain whole, marking my target. Hurd sprint the photofinish like a motherfuck. I’d be damned to get propellered....back of my skull spawned sirens at full tilt. Imminent 30 seconds of mote. only one more sub...and there she was sight for the sorest of all eyes, elbowed out of pivots. Turned my cranium in a gaulk at the charcoal lit sky. Taken for granted were the jets summoning from the skies, because not only was this place filled with submarines,but also it layed of transportation scrimmaged of mileage, bowing 747’s, single engine cesna’s, a towing pelt that thwarted a vanished account of junk piles.......this is where they all came to....crashing all around me. Cramp struck in arm again, phoenix craft and carpel throbs, aloud snow lotion stalks......my last dash made from a leap of faith....lid shut tight at the soles of my feet. Would I make it this time? Eyes shut from terror, think I lost control of my function. Pigmented pearl at a harbor.....padding a cell of my own. Sat there petrified overhead the collisions, as it gashed open the siege of all missing ships.. safety in numbers, in them where I hid. The interface wreck sealed shut the entrance of my K19. Now the only fucking problem was opening it. It rained for three straight hours. Forming overhead through the scope, I observed a layer of dry ice residue made from a dead vessel collage.

          I made it....or had I really. Claustraphonic circumprison was I running out of air? The K19 could no longer re-enter the atmosphere in question, and with choices guzzled on empty, I fell into exhaustion throwing in the towel. “Ala verga!”...i whimperd.....“I’ll just sit here till they rescue me”...I kidded myself, swaying mental patiently. “I’ll just keep tellin myself that I’m o.k.”....“someone ...will...come....” snaped into sobs, followed by hysterics, maimed with laughter. This shit was endless. For the pecking, I too became a voice in the pond. Eyes rolled back solitary in confinement. Unglued in its eternal waltz, slowly my being transparent, clocked out. All that was left was a puddle made of spit. Heavy on the eyes... grew heavy on the eyes......“if you paddle away, you know we’ll find and put you back in this vesicle colony of mute vernacular. No dramatic means of fencing against this solitary sickness. As it precipitates flare gun shots. Coughing into the armpit of a mecharest home because when it rains, you know it pours”- the mongrel tarants.

     tira me a las aranas;

     drunkship of lanterns;

          You’ve got the lot to burn. A shelve of pig smothered cries. Is there a spirit that spits upon the exit of signs? Is anybody there? These steps keep on growing long. Bayonet trials rust propellers await…No…Nobody is heard, rowing sheep smiles for the dead. Nobody is heard..an antiquated home. A float with engines on mute. Sui generis ship spined around the yard. Is anybody there ? These craft only multiply. At the nape of ruins rust propellers await… No… Nobody is heard, compass wilting in the wind. Nobody is heard. Rowing sheep smile for the dead. Transoceanic depth in this earth - in this cenotaph. Lash of one thousand eye brows clicking. Counting the toll. Counting the toll. You’ve got the lot to burn. A shelve of pig smothered cries.Is there a spirit that spits upon the exit of signs. Is anybody there ? These steps keep on growing long. Bayonet trials rust propellers await..Nobody is heard, compass wilting in the wind. Nobody is heard, rowing sheep smile for the dead. Transoceanic depth in this earth in this cenotaph.Carpel jets…Hit the ground. Carpel jets…Hit the ground..Lash of one thousand eyebrows clicking. Counting the toll. Counting the toll. Lash of one thousand eyebrows clicking. Counting the toll. Counting the toll.

          {schadenfreude are the growing pains}

          Civets from the recidivist gasped profusely..“Lacerated their tongues, I think they speak too much, as it ransacked a clearing in front of me. Vocal chords denied breath, pallid with metric licking. In this fog, it provoked me a new name, by the skin of ghemora hotel, I thought that I had escaped...key phrase being “I thought”. Snowing gave way to flinches in this tube bolted screen. I had excelerated the growth of the esp continuum through fracturing hecatomb washes scraping my fiber, with manual incentive. The esp had allowed me once again to transgress lateral dementia, radarless chameleons beating a path for the bleep on this screen. Leaving behind one body and pouring back into an exothermic version of another. Found inside out taping a transparency of hail everywhere. Viciously I swam through clear muk molten props in amelting fallout of nothingness....humming germs....voluptuous insignia sewn out of thorough breds. Left a trail of memories to try and figure out how to get back. Felt dusted to the niles. A racket in the chamber, smiling to me an assurance of “You really needn’t breath anymore, look around you...it is devoid of function.”

          Faith vanishings, hence the litter passing by muttering underbreath, and waterlike. I thought someone might still be able to spot me...testator nomadic. Trailing a tail of trick mirrors, hyperventilating as I did past my own temple. The burning sank a fade as I swam deeper into the listening..."all of this time bedsore containment, where am I now that the music has faded.” Enraptured in vicoden tucks, kennel swarms of cumulonimbus dogs ran through my delusion, was I just making it up or was there a maelstrom of pets, impending a gush upon me? With wet warm towels in went blank retina awol, guess I’d gotten use to that. Narchromeleptic fever pictures unripe for the recon. Traveled on sick leave beds through out these pages. Apparently a hustle and bustle wanked freely beneath my manupod, or was I on an operating table ? The smell of sterile gauze gave abscess dripping, disinfectant for the ruckus below grunting of lap dance foam and limbless muts, scanned the floors below me hinting painted me immobile. A life support christened me helpless, with one surgeon standing over me. “You have the body of a mistake,” he said. “and you the clumsy hands of a novice,” I snapped, emaciated by the confidentiality casing that choked me claustrophobe affection. “How long have I been under?”...hoping for something real....“Who ever said you woke up ?”

          Now I recognized where the voices came from. Found face to hound, leant in for an answer. “We had to lure you here somehow,” the doctor smirked. “These unruly abominations are the ones who guided you here. Not much in the way of looks, yet plenty to gaulk at...they speak beautifully, dont you agree?” Fucking monster had a cunning hint about him, smoldering calm reserve, with rows of teeth up his sleeve. I needed to know how the animals spoke to me in the rings. “Show me how you storm ventriloquiy at the wind, fasting particle past the mum of of past participles?” I grew stubborn and shitfaced of medicine. Labotomized in the frances ward, “What’s that smell?” carpet aroma sailing of burnt crisp hair. “That would be you my feathered friend.” Found my veins startling annoyed of form, ejected in an emulsion taxidermi still....drawn and quartered. “What have you done to my body”...“All for the better moattilliatta...you will fly again.” He spoke with such determination. his speech seem to intoxify my adrenalin rush, dumbing me demeral flash heat.

          Wolfram Tarant as i would read on his name tag in peripherals, was the name of the infectant MD, a quacking malpractice advocate whose very name was synonymous with butchery. His offices, located on the fault lines of the vocifur euphrates entangled itself in a splendorous sedative impunity as it was masked a camouflage of stiple teleferance. This worked to his advantage, with no outside intervention. His services had been requested by the mentiads, which was an alias for the tremulants. Bounty hunters if you will. But without surgical skill they could not perform the proper surgery needed on Cerpin. The task was simple- "by order of red tezcatlipoca- base tendon to the high order of tremula metacarpi- unleash the last of the great teraquetzals - spare no blood-fit like glove.”

          When duty called with bounty and receipt, the payment made a mockery as to the relevance of Cerpins body. Wolfram chased around the room. Fantasies wired his eyes immense and unethical, as if consumed by a dictation of good posture and common decency. “You will reach the highest peaks of jackal children sacrifice, rain fingers down, in a bath of blood.....” He shook with priapic vigor. I couldn’t fight it. Attached to machinery, cowardice became shock. The good doctor had a healing touch. His hands lapped at my wounds for fingers he had none. Attached to his wrists were the heads of mongrels tearing at my flesh. Nursing it to wealth. No silver scalpels, but filthy dogs that winked the stare of exlovers past, present and sutured tense. “Why have you done this to me?”...“You did this to yourself...besides it is merely an option,” creaked a slovenly grin lip. “Once you taste it, there’s no turning back” I didn’t understand. The wingspan of my speech began shrieking cringes. “Tranquilo escraboso, tranquilo.” “What choices do you speak of!” i demanded. “Observe restless one, observe.....on your cornea will appear the image of your sworn enemy. A bricktank in the final installation of your discontent. An obese boar who goes by koral mataxia. This foul tempter, commissioned by the tremulants will find his holves enjoying the fruits of your endeavors. He is to steal your most beloved, and you are you are to allow him to do so with little opposition.” Wolfram seemed to stray. “If it wasn’t for him where would tremula be, I forsee with pleasure...there must be organization in this chaos. do what thou wilt spreads very thinly...our very existence depends on your wrath” I didn't understand. “Your greatest losses will fan this very flame.” Fermium waves of cancerous leaches sucked me dry of a fight. I did not believe him. Wolfram began shouting, “Cursed are the genes of your cathartic existence! It was written and so shall it be. how perfect your prototype of nihilistic expenditure. A true prince among the living dead.” My doubts increased with voltage. “You can’t turn back, you haven’t got the courage.” Wolfram insisted, replacing my arms with wings cast out in this orgy of uncut gordian knots. “flooded you will grieve at an institutional romance, engulfed in a rage of jealous activity. she will evoke your self destruct only after you have struck,” he beamed in soapoperative legislation. “We will provide you with the gate, it is you who has to make the choice, I trust my custom job will convince you of your self worth...join us and leave them all behind. can you deny this crown, peasant ranting for torture in the fixing of pure decadence.”

          Back in Rezjua, semantics sanded down the morale at the gathering sympathizers who rallied around Cerpins body. The amount of morphine that he ingested was enough to appropriate his state further and further, to the verge of permanent psychosis .The tremulants claimed a forfeiture of property......that of the temple of his body...starting with his comprehension,....were they convincing him? Some prayed, some paced, some knew that the worst was yet to come. Messages kept scrawling out of his mouth......tempting a belief that everything was alright. Those closest to him held their breath..... aA jewel like no other was about to be stolen, and of all the treasures they had to pick from theirs.... It was enough to make you laugh at the defiling martyrdom of a petty catholic guilt. He had yet to live his slogan, making his way through prune wrinkeld omens...hibernating in gums, rationed and chattering. As was his logic to box your own response. What was it that Wolfram was foaming at the hands about? Cerpin came in and out of his sleep, his body sat up in the emergency room found elbow deep in the clasp. More of his friends gathered, ,fusing a residential vigil, praying for his soul. He mutated double speak, an oar sinking not knowing where it was. Everyone slouched torn of pale witness to an apparation. Please come back to us. just as he started making out the images, he awoke back into the arms of Wolfram Tarant, unable to break the morphine tackle that found him dead asleep. The dogs paraded back and forth underneath speaking at his wings. Cerpins body was now of normal cosmetics, no longer a butchers shop...trimmed of fat on the ground. No more probing or slicing. He felt rested. He sat and smiled, “Where am I?”...unable to remember. The dogs began to speak in unison tones, sirens of shriveled mutiny. “When will you come convulsing to my basement?”- Dr. Wolfram Tarant

     eriatarka;

          And there are those who hadn’t found the speaking so wrong,is it wrong? Of pavolov lore, they ran rampant through the floors, is this wrong ? Feels so wrong…happened on a respirator in the basements.Are they gone? Are they gone?... Stung the slang of a gallows bird.. rationed a dead letter pure. Trackmarked amoeba lands craft ,cartwheel of scratches,dress the tapeworm as pets.Tenticles smirk please, flinched the cocooned meat, infra-recon forgets. Now there are those who find comfort in the breathing wrong, is it wrong ? It houses the watchful eyes, they’re panting in a pattern in droves, are they gone? Happened on a respirator, in the basement is it gone ? Are they gone? Stung the slang of a gallows bird. Sanctioned a dead letter pure. Trackmarked amoeba lands craft. Cartwheel of scratches….dress the tape worm as pets. Tentacles smirk please flinch the cocooned meat infra-recon forgets. Evaporated the fur, because it covers them. If you only knew the plans they had for us. Evaporated the fur, because it covers them. If you only knew the plans they had for us.They used to have pulses in them, but impulse has made the strong.

          They used to have pulses in them, but impulse has made them strong. Evaporated the fur… because it covers them. If you only knew the plans they had for us.Trackmarked amoeba lands craft, cartwheel of scratches dress the tapeworm as pets..Tentacles smirk please, flinch the cocooned meat.. Infra-reco forgets. Gotta be a way..of getting out. Are you just growing old? Trackmarked amoeba lands craft, cartwheel of scratches, dress the tapeworm as pets.

~続く~