September 5, 2012

(The new novel is about a haunted house and the “innocent” family stuck inside. Also, today is my little sister’s 24th birthday so happy birthday to her. Tomorrow is exactly one month until the wedding. In other news, the small rabbit’s nose is moist. And she sneezed last night for a few minutes. The internet says that’s a bad thing. But my girls always had wet noses. The great white rabbit was the worst. She’d cuddle against you and leave a wet spot on the pants leg from her nose. But since internet research made me paranoid, the small fry now has a doctor’s appointment tomorrow. Anyway, enjoy the newest excerpt from my latest creation.)




     (((the NEEDLE NECK speaks))) some walls. they close in. they lock tight, then singe. but i eat charcoal with my mouth open. i eat charcoal and shit coal. i pat my cheeks against shattered mirrors while humming, [ole, ole, ole, ole.] i know some bad things about the hallway. a gray man leaves mucus slicks on the walls. he bites hard and the plaster turns to powder. it is ugly powder. it is too gray. i hate gray. some gray. some walls. i bite my knuckles. someone says i can’t be metal? who says? i say. i am metal. but i am not metal. you can’t melt me! you can’t melt me into core crystals. you can’t melt me into black stone. i eat shale for breakfast. then i fart over a father’s face while giggling. i’m that ghost that likes to giggle. watch me vomit over the floorboards so mother steps in the puddle’s center. i want everyone to die. but i don’t want everyone to die. if everyone died, who would watch me? who would say, [NEEDLE NECK, you’re doing alright.] or [NEEDLE NECK, you need a hobby.] or [NEEDLE NECK, how did you even get into this house?] i don’t know. i walked through the front door. i impaled the window. i got in and i stayed in. but i didn’t want to stay in. because it hurts. because the wood sags against my chin. and my head hurts. and my stomach hurts. how do i have a stomach if my body is a needle? do needles have organs? do needles look at the sagging radiator and think, [i’d like to be that kind of metal?] what kind of metal would i be if i could be anything? sagging metal. rancid metal. metal with no shine. metal with all rust. yeah. give me that metal because that metal makes me feel good. it’s the kind of metal i want to eat with my mouth closed. and then i want to open my jaws and let the metal fall out. that’s the way. eat that metal and let it sag. or toss that metal away. oh yeah. metal here, metal there. metal stuffed into mother’s underwear, waiting to prick her vagina. [ghost,] they whisper. but who whispers? they do. they and their stuffed chins. they and their ugly warts. they and their hands fidgeting over the strings hanging off the comforter. hands and threads and hallways. some stuff. some stuff with no guts. some stuff with fat hands. some stuff watching me. some stuff hovering in the hallway. embrace gravity. then vomit a galaxy heavy with star fodder. but i know metal. i know metal gas and metal water and metal stones and metal bodies and metal noses and metal tubs and metal brains and metal bogs and metal dogs and metal signs and metal moans and metal throats and metal organs and metal faces and metal cloth and metal braids and metal dirt and metal orange and metal. metal, metal, metal. remember the needle when you pray. remember the needle when its shuddering stomach smacks against your face, breaking the metal in half to get at the fat leather stuffed behind your eyes. that’s the secret. put the meat away. take that metal and stuff it up your eyes. take that meat. i have no eyes. you have no eyes. how can we have eyes when we’re all metal? but no. i am metal. nothing else is metal. there are red stomachs and yellow eyes and skeletal hands and a mother and a father and a boy and a girl and a sexless thing hanging in the closet, everyone wondering what chased the moonlit light away. i know. i know everything that happened to the moon before and the moon after and that hallway before and that hallway after and that swollen clot and that abbreviated clot and you should stop looking at me that way. i stroke father’s cheek. i stroke father’s weak ends. i stroke father and he sobs when i race him through the narrow hallway, hollering, [this is the end of days! days of end the is this! this is the end of days!] i smack against the railing, then bounce back. then i have no eyes. then i have no cheeks. i have no cheeks and i have to have cheeks but i can’t have cheeks because what needle has cheeks? none. a needle has to be smooth and metal. a needle has to pick through thin fabric layers. a needle has to work fast and easily. a needle has to dive. watch that needle dive. but father sees me in the hallway, then in the bathtub, then in the kitchen sink. father sees me preaching to a radiator. father sees me milking the walls into a wine glass. an ugly wine glass, if i might add. a wine glass that would make any person sob with shame. i know shame. i know shame easily and i know shame terribly and i think shame should cling to my knees or shame should be picked off like a scabbed disease and hi diddle diddle, hey diddle diddle, ho diddle diddle, prick your finger on my metal edge! that’s the way i think. prick what you have to. or don’t prick anything at all. throw the prick to the side, then bend the prick to the left, and heave the prick again. but i am needle. someone slammed a finger against me and left with a bloody hand. those are the things i do with my edge polished sharp. someone left the needle in the kitchen. someone threw the needle on the floor. someone ate the needle with breakfast. someone chopped the needle in two. the things i do. some things. some walls. some floors. some hallways, gelatinous with pink membranes and the end of days, the end of ways, the end of needles. my needle. me.

This is how I find the small rabbit on any given night.

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