Holes built, the trenches wait, not a glass coffin but a solid box of facts. I lower it, in the waters tinged with pristine hatred and create him-the scientist, of numbers and reason. He had a world in his head, of threads and black-purple shades, merging to form a picture in otherwise vacuum. I waited, squatted on his side as he woke, a cruel gift embedded in him-Mary Shelly's fantasy. I watch him walk and move into me, with an ease no other man can afford. I completed the story for her today; watch her turn in her grave, her grey, tattered white gown rustling in the wind brushing against my dead ears attached to a mind full of open doors. He swims around in my stomach, killing me, I let out a hollow scream. I drown him-paracetemol poison for his naughty self. He swims and then dissolves, his gift now mine and armed I walk into words that no words could ever be, into a realm tried so hard to be embedded in words of undue importance. And the doors open, I let them fly in, processing-me the machine, with a carrions gift. They were theirs, now mine-I let them in and they haunt me, eyes closed I see them murder me. They wake, give birth and walk in, again and again, chaos-unknown and surprising. I sing myself-us-to sleep.
Close our eyes, to the octopus unbound. Close our eyes to the octopus unbound.
Labels: Tales from the Bedroom