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Z,,.

They found each other beneath the streets in this fervent place: I wouldn’t have looked for them but you know how I liked to party. Once we tried to stop them but we got as far as Bacon Street, watching while they waved flags and screamed at one another under the fire died; this was those times when I’d gone through about five tough times; the cat died, my mom wasn’t home and those keys under the house had been keyed. I don’t try much anymore but why would I; you wouldn’t and now look at you – shifting and becoming, dancing and climbing, a throatful of ambition and I’m towned; telling you, every night you spend couch-hunting makes you stronger; I should know, I was a strong right hook away from ground, and now my sound found a sidekick; I couldn’t tell you how but I knew them, and those flags showna. 

Centaur Loam Fields.

I won’t lie to you, there was a centaur in the loam fields who watched us as we passed. “You don’t come back from there,” he said. “Unless you come back as bodies, still and unbreathing, and I will pull you from yourself and dock your heads and ribs and skullcages on pikes and ride you through the soft low forests; and we shall sing your praises oh us satyrs; and we shall devour what is left of you and there will be nothing of left of you, that I grant you: and I shall plant your leavings in my garden and you will fertilize the flowers that grow for me, and I will weave those flowers into the hair of my mistresses, and when I mount them I shall smell the little pieces of you that is all that is left of you, and no one shall miss you elsewhile little children; you will not even be ghosts, glowing; you will’nt.” 

And we laughed at him for he was only a skinny, rotting centaur whose belly caved beneath his breast, and who stank of peat and sewer. No one listened to the old centaurs, who could not even walk like men; their time was so long past and even we only wanted to lay down deep. We left him there, calling after us, and we disappeared beneath, and as they walked ahead of me I turned and glinted quickly at him, and he would stay stone and no one misses him, and when I mounted my mistresses I would not think of him, no; no…

How This Started

I had found her past the nightmarkets, digging in dirt, finding something beneath the fermenting topsoil. As she cleaned it I saw a sculpted heirloom made of stone, swirls of rock with something glinting beneath. Nearby her partner raised spores from the leaves where they rested; said spores revolved in the low light; sparkling. They nodded to one another, she and she, and then to me as I stepped from the rotting, seething loom. They told me they could use me and I hadn’t heard that one; we were off, us three, to find whatever left us; to discover what had been buried. I felt the needs swim in my fingers, wanting to touch and harden them, but I wouldn’t. No one had stopped and asked me to join before. No one had seen in me anything of value. Where I walked the streets parted; where I sought ignored. Now we ventured more deeply, and at night they slept near me, though my skin was limestone and opaque. We couldn’t have been more disparate. No one would see us as we disappeared between. They would never know us until we were piled; gloaming, a heap of tissue, eating; bomen.

The Rot Farms

We sold rot in the marketplace below ground, rot which was turned into the richest loam in the canopies of the overcity. With that we bought supplies of a kind we couldn’t find where we came from, and then turned – almost absurdly – back into the dark. She led us deeply, past the groam zombs and the ratchetforms, past the wakes and muddy waters, where something drove us downward, downward to find ourselves, down to find what was left of us beneath it, my feigned heart bloated; Worming Lows.

Your House

I hadn’t seen myself since I got older, but now as I looked at myself I began wondering where I’d come from, where this person I’d sort of become had been shaped, and if I was indeed a mystery to myself or if something inside me had simply changed. I hadn’t known myself in quite some time and all the pieces shifted, seemed to have become something else; something truly unlike me. I could see how my bones moved beneath my muscles and everything seemed out of place; it seemed like there was something that lived in me and used me for its skin while I operated outside, carrying both of us. I was unsure if I’d worn myself for some long time or if the person I was had simply formed around me, and in fact I was inside myself somewhere, still making bones and putting them in place; building a new form from the inside while the flesh around what I’d been was remade, lumps in new places, until I was something different; until the parts I recognized were removed and the something I had been shaped itself, its eyes sharp, blinking my eyelids, shedding the last pieces so it turned into my home, this house, looking out.

ten switches

Things had gotten terrible again; no one was sleeping and the bar lizards were crawling upwards, their licking was loud against the drapes. I‘d forgotten what you looked like and the air was thin; when I tried to sleep the air was sharp and I could not trick myself into turning off; I pictured my mind as a hallway with ten switches and said now you’ll turn off ten switches, but I could only turn off eight. I turned off nine and ten with difficulty, straining; the switches would clatter and the lights would flicker, and pushing one awoke another. I walked the hallway saying you have turned off the eighth switch, you have turned the seventh switch, back and forth, but the last two switches stood in lit rooms, waiting for you. 

You saw at a sinner in Chicago watching our child, long-suffering; your hair was the color of your jacket and all our colors were red, and every red was the same red. 

No one found you out here because no one checked the greenhouse; 

when you were tied up you didn’t eat, but as soon as I saved you no one cared. We only watched to see Madonna, who wasn’t really sure of you. I was on the smallest pills and they only knocked me out four hours. 

The rest of the time I couldn’t be bothered; I sat up practicing the Mockingbird and the Dancing Buddha and the Mona Lisa Smile, and nothing worked; I whispered fear to the universe and did not excise it; I couldn’t feel my feet. These nights were six hour pockets of slience in which my brain would not stop. I had begun to wonder if a body could just go without sleep, and how many hours I had until I went insane. I was on a feedback loop and the birds called out. I could have told you otherwise but we both know you listened .