The belt clicks. Her fingers delve in, under skin, and slowly work up through raw meat splattered mucus brown. Eyes reeling, seeing the ceiling through her skull, through the grey turned cooked pink. She grips and clutches at gore, squelching, fingers itching sunburnt pink worms. They wriggle and pulse and ooze and move, escaping the pitchfork reverberating.
She moves up, twinging xylophone notes resonate through my body and escape through foie-gras pores. The prongs seep through my gates, tickling at the monster that counts down, surrounded by liquid atmosphere, orange narcotics, sludgy light. Her hand pulses with it, sporadic train track thuds against the rails.
I push her hand from my visceral matter, dripping red down my cage, down on loose sheets of skin scribbled with pinks, faded red lightning etching up. This is my cage, it protects me. It likes the pale colours I feed it, in intervals, pig pink, Viagra blue. These colours stop the greys darkening from ghost to rotting black blue brown. Those shades don’t really exist, those outrageous bursts aren’t natural, they can’t be. They’re sickly and come from pseudo-dimensions full with flowing lips and dead Valium dinosaurs, Dionysus the fraud! I won’t let him near this organon, it’s an eternal sunset and I have no want or need for the darkness he would have me consume.
She cocks her head, eyebrows question marks set upon pink stone. Through clenched fists and eyes, still I see her, lust licking, sweet wine drying on plastic sheets. Polyester fashioned soft. She picks up my hand and places it to her chest, letting it sink into sick tar with streaks sunburst orange and fever yellow. There’s nothing solid, no ribs, just this kaleidoscopic mess.
“It’s love.”
My hand sinks in further, quicksand sucking finger tips, sucking me whole. It works up, arms, matting hair into Rorschach patterns against her skin. She lets me play in it, dazing the nerve strands that lead from my eyes, they untangle and work down, fleeing from the brain and to my gut. I don’t see her now, I feel her. I taste bitter chemicals on top of salted Parma violets. Lost within the fever yellow, I feel her softness creep across my ribs, spreading out to recesses of foreign territory.
Shards of bone stab through flesh,
Enamel tattoos reading “TEAR HERE”,
How is a conscience supposed to blossom?
I feel. For the first time? No, not the first. Between sludge cracked edges fake apple green seeps. I don’t know this colour, but it knows me, it looks at me, beady, bubbles popping dead gas and turning purple. It forces its way up through my tubes, my valves, my tissues. Warm metallic taste on tongue. I can’t contain it, it trickles onto us, mixing into the mess of pre-school art projects. We become I.
Shoot to veins, please? I would blister the insides of my elbows given the chance. Even let them turn black on ghost yellow parchment, narcotic orange burn and tingle sludge. I only just notice her scars, she’s tasted this before and let it eat her from the inside. There are dry bits, peel them, peel them off and show me what is left. I know. I am now the blood tar ritual. Open your jaws!
Cooking flesh under breath. Pearl skin, she’ll stain it red, and taste what I can. Taste my metal, the iron melting fountains from my neck. I flinch and breathe.
“Ready?”
She bites, orange haze injection, pink closing my nose. It burns. Bubble the blood that no longer reaches my brain, only enough for one organ. It reduces, thickens and works down. Harder. I want that crush, that resistance; her touch isn’t enough. I want her to want to scream into the shackles I have made, resonate each peg, make it tingle and release every tension it held. Soft wet on my neck, she stops and violet eyes lull into spasms. I know how she lets the rhythm take her to sub-dimensions, Dionysus the king, giving out sharp crepuscular crushes that she craves. She knows how he can give less though. I won’t.
I bite. Signal her cooked pinks that I have awoken, this demon leaping from her mouth and to mine. It wants and will never be satisfied. I taste Venus blood soaking through my teeth. I had never been able to name it before, but I had tasted it in procaine toothaches that left clothes with red ghosts. It’s in me. But there’s Mars in there too, somewhere in her, the destroyer waiting to rip my chest open, to throw her mettle at me until I die. Still we are erect, every inch growing into the other. DNA binding, biting, blinding, we grow into what we thought was full and still find room. Within this hyper-mass, we can’t stop, tearing apart, consuming, the itch we couldn’t quite touch with the sharpest of metals. We were designed like this, to eat until sick. Orange pinks. We hid. Under clothes. Until…until…
Nerve ending twinge pearl threads,
Tangled into one homogeny,
We exhale within the little death.
The doctor steps across the Ragman and the Small child. The small mess it had all made. Reaching into me, he checks gauges, they repulse and crack, no readings. He takes the scalpel and slices through pink, etching the line to my skull. Taking the hook out of the eye, he unhinges my skull to witness what has become. Black oil cabbage stench and he sees the cooked pink with pre-school splatters. Plastic burn, cellophane wrinkles, and crinkles away from the matter that once was and now just pulses narcotic purple. It pulses to my lips and curls them up in cadaver bliss, limbs curling into hers, cells fused sticky pink. He’s done, and leaves the report on the bed.
There will be scar tissue, can you see it form?
“A quick grasp on cascading matter, no approval needed […] Unexpected beauty intertwining with reality.”
– Mount Celestia, Rolo Tomassi
AF Cowlin 
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