Sunday, May 15, 2011


Guts.  He didn't have them, but they were all around him.  Guts were everywhere.  Trying not to step on them was a bloody difficult nuisance.  The pages were being torn out and shredded.  The machine was constantly running.  The running.  The runs.  Guts seeped out uncontrollably.  Nasty business.  These guts seeping out.  Pissed everyone around him.  The people who had all the guts in the world.  The world was full of it.  Piling up into monuments, hills, buildings, and mounds of guts. 

He would slip on guts and awkwardly rise.  An awkward rise to the surface of the gut-filled landscape.  A landscape flooded with guts had become a sea.  A sea of guts.  An awkward rise to the surface was punctuated by voices interrupted by the unending motion of guts.  Guts always in motion.  Always digesting.  He was passed on from one process to the next.  The next.  And the next.  Being broken down along the way.  Being.  Broken down.  All the way.  Just most of the way.  Not fully digested. 

He was unable to purge the slightest bit.  He was being dissolved and broken down.  For not.  For the guts.  The guts all around him.  They were sick of him.  The pages were being torn out and shredded.  The machine was running day and night.  Running.  The runs.  His guts were seeping out.  That pissed them off. 

They'd get out the hoses and cleanse him of his seepage.  Uncontrollable seepage.  The hoses blasted him with fluid and guts.  Mostly guts.  They had nothing but guts.  The fluid was from the inside of guts.  That hurt.  Guts hurt.  Inside and outside.  He tried to collect his thoughts that hadn't been broken down.  Needed more time to fill gaps in his thoughts burned out by acid.  An impossible task.  The before and after gave the impression of not being like the acid of all the guts.  All those pages had been torn out and shredded.  The machine kept running.  Day and night.  Running.  The runs.  He seeped out of himself.  Breaking it down.  There was no before left.  There was no after left.  Breaking it down.  For them.  For guts.  They couldn't make sense of what was left.  There was nothing left to make sense of.  They left what was left and they left.  Guts couldn't rub off on him.  Even though he couldn't help rubbing up against nothing but guts.

- Max Stoltenberg

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