the death of small bald men with knuckleduster ambitions
three days ago, this huge thing fell from a tree, on the ground, loud as a motherfucker, and the elderly cripple would have jumped in shock if he could move, poor bastard, but he couldn’t, and his heart literally fuckin’ exploded, didn’t it, right there in his chest, like dynamite in a water balloon, all rubbery and boom, blood splashing his insides. blood painting his insides, imagine, right, that his chest was a hollow room and there was this thick red stuff, black in bits, on the walls and the doors, and dripping from the handles, long after his body was cold and lying on the slab in aasaharaa. unexpressed, aimless blood, with no place to go. state funeral, they thought. outside, people came to check if he was really dead, they grasped his purified wrists and felt for a pulse and then celebrated the silence with grins inside, and unravelling outside. state carnival, i said. you looked at the sky and didn’t speak.
and later we check, you know, our bodies still smelling like the crocodile tears of the despicable, the ground beneath the tree, and there was a dent in the pavement, a grey right-angle, but whatever had fallen had long gone, picked up or walked out of its own accord, no doubt unaware of the reasons why we live and die. you look at me and you see my face, and because i am smiling, because i made a sound in my throat (i was going to laugh), and because you know me from the knot in my stomach to the fucking split ends in my hair (inside and out, i mean to say), you sneer and you say, you are a fucking disorder. you said i am a fucking disorder. you don’t walk away but you look away, and i stand next to you, a fucking disorder standing next to your sneering beautiful knotted neck.
he is dead, i think, and my soul unravels and travels in the breeze, towards north and south. i don’t care. this day has come.