Left it beginning behind the couch in front of the screen in the screen digging at it with these nails wrong nails and the toolbox grinning and bearing it alone in the garage where I am when I get lost in responsibility or pretending to be responsible and its supplies of phrases and bending of the knees and walking they call it moving they call it showing up for shit they call it shit they call it happening they vomit it out of their brains the backs of their brains in the form of growing hair and lengthening fashion that spreads its shapely deformities all over the world seeping into the cracks of the likes of us clicking and licking each other's clicks and licks and rummaging about in photoshopped stains and haphazard exchanges within one's one's whatever the hell this is superstitions stuck between your moments of contributing whatever the hell this is and picking at it with wooden sticks until the gums of your reflections bleed with sighs of disbelief at all the things your mind keeps crashing into hitting itself against the wall of nightmarish fantasy naked and spit upon lubed for repetition even though you left it beginning behind the couch.
"Put it down."
"I can't think of another insult."
"That's not what I meant and yes you could. I meant physically."
"As if my insults my the put downs the metaphors had nothing to do with the physical world this narrow entrapment of being here fuck."
"I'll put it down before you spill it."
"Don't touch it don't touch me and there's nothing left to spill sucked it all back into its solid dry orifice with the slurp of absorption."
"Least favorite number."
"The process has done another number on you has it?"
"No what's your least favorite number?"
"What don't you like about 87?"
"I just don't like it."
"My daughter fairly loathed multiples of 25."
"I didn't know you had a daughter."
"25, 50, 75, 100, she especially didn't like 125 and she would get quite cross if you asked her about it to explain it I mean."
(They sat in a row as if on a plane indicated by backpacks for falling down and paper bags for throwing up. In a row they sat as if in a desert which they were the three of them as if one of them died which they had).
"I'm still waiting."
"For me to move them?"
"To start soaking their sleeping bag with blood or something as they rot."
"They were really to themselves rather tight lipped so much so I don't think we're going to see much of anything."
"I've stopped breathing."
"What? You, too? Is it contagious?"
"Not permanently. I think I've been putting forth an effort to time my inhales."
"I'll just go on feigning to relate to anything you continue to relate to me."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"I value my insomnia."
Swords in my stomach
twisting and nagging
turning me over in my bed
yanking on the sheets of mediocrity
searching for faces, clothing
when there was a time
for waiting in line
before we got out
to what lied dead
to what lied to us
in the desert
however you say
however they said it
purchased it before
a place to call our own
- Max Stoltenberg