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Davis Schneiderman




from DIS


LONNY: CUT-UP ::†Hear the incision before feel 'you' is implied and to be truthful the masks float above my limpid surface in this white, dripping belly and I know no distinctions anymore but I imagine it is the tiny serrated nodes of knife or scissors jaw of course I canít see the limitless resuscitation of noise glorious sound triumphant tympani judge only by feeling tickles above the wet and shriveled manhood alighting on some complementary slopes of contemporary pain ten degrees or fifteen perhaps one angled barb knocking my flesh independently nudging gently its insidious kiss and tear and hold if only it were alone sanitized in a jar sterile on the shelf light flab moves forward on the first steel hook and every rip is tempered stultified almost ticklish until my god until the second jut hooks the subsequent lifts of flab and those are still bearable almost mainly but then the others unrelated to this first series are not lifted in adjacent force from the first cut but the entire procession clips in static interval like the a-physical swoop of reverse-cam Russian table service my god set the mood down the ray gun someone says my ears twitch as frequency alternates along some grim amplitude a subtle hearing test in which my hands boundtight to my torso under the black lead shield running like a slate of solid iron suddenly melted over the mold of my toes to the face of my forehead cannot move there seems to be airholes for still I can breath if I think hard about the processes involved the time out the inbreaths time in the out feel the lung contract and fan ash through bronchial passageways meta-breathing I shuffle within the prison knocks my nostrils against the inserted air-pipe tube clips hospital smells formaldehyde doctrines and angular baptism of steel wistfuls of somethings spill forth from my slice and I assume its blood liquid oozing and congealing the slitís aperture like the wound were a simple paper-cut implanted by a errant sharp edge on some anxious readerís pointer AAGGHHHH blood is not blue drugs are not heavy but quick AAGGGGHHHH inside myself in the womb I have never has never owned never felt the belly at the center of the universal all is dark but not black there is no such color as black only brown or mixture of colors in the only mixtures of colors memories propositions mommy my lord do I have a mother once in the back once mommy this is color pointy dead fingers walk brown this color holy finger pointing brown and this brown this brown different shades of brown and grey and orange and opaque and violet and green lighting that forces my green cooze that is the rudes of all tires that is my destroyer of worlds that wine calling the bottle cork there is not black but black a mixture of all and white is the absence of all and Mary is the mother of god and both the whore of Jesus shielded with leadplate radiation suits and electromagnetic armor but white on the outside and the people in the masks the doctors with their veils before Allah the blood curdling like milkshit like letters no longer supporting difference a word that loses texture tangibility as it drips into oblivious scissors render this process explicit sutures to the tender bone screaming orgasm of birth and thwarted infanticide quiet wombs in silk stethoscopes cold like silver dollars between flat skin and slip pre-lactating moments among zombie monsters kill Kublai Khan and I heave out the aperture AAAAAGGGGGGHHHHHH the artificial stretch quiets of another second dulls collective sigh from collective persona about me masked duped dried up and cornered shriveled and laden with baggage covered in salt peanuts render the process of inflection explicit names are collections of infected poesy words can be substituted at will when subtle cues pay homophones their due anesthesia natural in Xanadu here in the DOME on the air kill the Lord how could I endure the cogitations of dare even steven forget me not thy awful plan forgive me master kill AGGHHH kill Kublai Khan as a brother to a sister of thought as patterns of contractions and AGGHHHH shantih shantih shantih because birth rates are up casualties down at this rate this DOME will have its full in a few then the plagues no revelation shit no primordial slime of telecommunications by-product OHM run through my stomach OHM through the belly of Xanadu OHM and the knives cut me to ribbons AUM long lost useless empty ribbons spurge and pop across the hurricane alleys the Tetragrammaton byways the carbon based lifeways posted aloft the lead covers of a metallic balloon gone awry the moon colony popped into dead spaceless anti-air of conspiracy the whitelight soaks my eyelids and a doctor a masked surgeon agree to masque no brown no black covered holes as opposed to orifices no blades inducing snips a suture and re-scissors me up renders the process implicit tiny soap suds from bubble pipes rinse my colon and lapse into delicate belches my chest heaving slightly I AUM naked the Resemblati hangs on hooks in the corner sagging like an empty vacuum bag unhooked from its sucker of a plenum and the baby is ripped vicariously to term over months in the DOME seven to be precise cause the faster we go the rounder we get poisoned by caricatures of the uncaring parent the oblivious DOME mother me Thelonius Bosh birthing my own baby afterbirth in a pleasure garden of independent-film screens framed already to the pool of grubby genes and bloody splurge photographing death when the soul is claimed and that is a wrap because just maybe AUM out on the moonwindowledges wet and shiny and bathed in plasma and sun oils the holy rock of ear bruising second star overtaking artificial atmosphere environment and fuselage orbs the man is shaking his head and beads of sweat and Kublai Khan they shout and I look at his body bubble pipe stuck from gash larger than me thick with padding and meat lungs processing oxygen and spitting carbon-dioxide flowers growing in the ether but they say Iíll clear up soon KUBLAI KHAN KUBLAI KHAN tilting head cradled in the hands of a sorcerer nurse our eyes meet our ears interlock Iíve seen him before but he is not a bubble pipe an orgy a common denominator the Vatican KUBLAI KHAN they scream KUBLAI KHAN they swelter a smile cancels the similarity off our lips KUBLAI KHAN is a thunder god KUBLAI KHAN OM my stomach KUBLAI KHAN AUM and my belly wad of spit digests this crowd for its moneyís worth into a::DOME: BIRTH OF A NOTION