There are epiphanies. Posts of stern nonfictions. There arise in us strong
love affairs with feedback. The id a remarkable botulism. And what
about shuttered domestic spirits. A proclivity for baskets of stone-
colored kittens. Rooms ticking with taxidermy. That kinetic afterglow of
firebombed galleries. Of demolition derbies. Acne-colored smoke from
the manifolds. Drivers asked to remain engulfed until it’s safe to exit.
It was all crash and burn. Very gestapo. Very doomsday guru. It was
more a moving than a shaking. Life a wispy thing at times amplified by
good hair days. Encoded in us an aesthetic mostly fueled by serotonin
stabilizers. Inherited genetic makeups. A twisted ladder of DNA. Between
chin and nose a tombstone of tongue.
Here is a satellite view of countries that look like prize fighter ears. The
plaza of a blood cell. Guano on historic rubble. The freezer burn palate
of the salt flats. Here is war footage of lime-green blood splatter through
night vision goggles. Black silhouette black silhouette black silhouette in
viral loops.
As if you can take a sadness and moisturize it. Feel an estrangement like
a ventriloquist’s hand in the dressing room after an intense set. Tacit
nuance. All that negative space between our lips. These are the weapons
we use. Hands on hard bodies. Flashes of cold chrome. Checkered flags.
Fuzzy dice.
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From Wet Manual by Eric Amling, available now from Blush.