June 18, 2012

(The novel’s progress continues in a positive direction…)

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     i am exonerated by the clock. the clock makes sense to me. [are you bones, the clock asks. are you little second skins? are you the hour muscles? i have a face but it seems nothing other than the yellow remnants.] i count sheep. i count clocks. i count seconds. i count oranges. i count bones. i count thighs. i count breasts. i count pelvises. i count hair. i count threads. i count needles. i count drugs. i count syllables. i count flowers. i count but my eyes do not close. i count but my mouth stays open. [i am so tired, i whisper. i am exhausted. but the bones don’t listen. and i can never get comfortable enough to sleep. can you help me? can you make my bones turn into gelatin just long enough for my head to ease into the pillowcase? please help me. i am a horrible insomniac.] the clock grows. the clock becomes a pillbug crawling up the wall. the clock saturates the ground with thicky glass water. [are you uncertain, the clock asks. are you confused about the way the years turn into months, how the seasons begin bright green and eventually die off the yellow cliff? do you think the suffering innards should have been ruined while you coughed your kidneys free of your chest? i have molten stone in my throat. but i have no throat. i am a clock. i am an amalgamation of hands and arms without the accompanying appendages. i am ruined. i am a ruined clock. burn the time off. leave the candle flustered by the steamy alley vents. go away now. or i will bite your throat out. you have more time stored in your arteries than i have in my entire pendulum gong.] i look at my hands. i stare at my hands but the meat doesn’t look the same. it lacks the pink stare. it is grotesque with its broken flesh. i touch my fingertips to my cheeks and shriek softly. [no, no, insomniac girl, the clock says. no, no. i do not like that. i think your lack of sleep is sickening. tub uoy dlouhs ees ym tsal sterger. they are so full of mayonnaise mold.] the clock rumbles. the clock groans. the clock leans to one side and its second fall into a bathtub filled with chlorine. chlorine dissolves into the porcelain. bones shatter near the dissolved vent face. stop looking my way. i think you have too many bones clustered around your ankles. and if your wrists keep burning, you might as well tell the possessed father to crawl free of the wall and salivate over the spontaneous child. it has too many cheeks and each one grows upon the next like a tumor. tumor face. there are more tumors than any other body. tumors in the throat, tumors in the eyes, tumors in the bones. we need those tumors. stick a needle inside and milk the tumor fluid out. those are the kinds of vessels we should promise to break when our tongues slip around our teeth and make messes. you are a mess. and you are bruised down the center. you are bruised through the chest. i have a bruise for you to get used to. i have a bruise for you to play with. but come hear, little finger bone, and i will trap your stomach fluid in my old garbage drain with the rest of the mutilated cats. but not real cats. never real cats. just the furs, torn free of the faces, left with the groaning salutation of many old hands bumping against the moldy wrists. what were you called before you were named PROSERPINA?] the clock settles against the wall silently and its gong dissolves into the wooden plank at the back of its body. i stare at the missing metal piece. i scratch the small of my back. i scratch and my fingernails dig deep into my spine, moving the vertebrae from side to side. [once, i went an entire month crying. i couldn’t stop. my eyes were always wet. my throat was constantly sore. and when i stopped, i would glance out a window or look at the sun, and then start again. i cried until my cheeks imploded and a balloon space inflated my mouth to the point of cracking open. it was an infection, although no one ever admitted that it was the kind of infection people enjoy getting, i say.] the clock nods. the clock smacks against the wall. a tolling bell echoes through the plaster. gong, gong, gong…

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