01-15-2018, 09:17 PM
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<center><font color="white" style="font-family:times new roman; font-size:9pt; line-height:12px; letter-spacing:2pt;"><i>
I’ll worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies
tell you my sins so you can sharpen your knife</i></font></center>
<font style="font-family:times; font-size:12px; letter-spacing:1; line-height:normal; color: #D0D0D0 ;">
Sleaze only knows terrible stories.
His life is rich with them (he once came face to face with a creation from another story, another author, a clown with grinning red lips and a laugh like rats scampering on broken glass, screaming <i>you’ll float you’ll float you’ll float</i>). They are all terrible, and he wears them writ in exhaustion across his face, in his unstable mind, his sleepless nights.
(There are nightmares, ceaseless and unrelenting, he wakes up in cold sweats, sometimes with tears on his cheeks. Sometimes thinking of an old, old mantra: <i>she loves us.</i>)
He is not thinking of stories, as he moves through the meadow. He is thinking of nothing – he feels best, when he thinks of nothing – when he thinks only of his feet. One before the other.
He feels a tug, low in his abdomen. He smells something acrid – ink.
A story. A beginning. <i>Once upon a time.</i>
He’s had enough of stories. Of beginning. He’s ready for endings. A denouement.
“Don’t,” he says out loud. Begs. “Not again.”
The tugging is stronger. The scent of ink, stronger.
(A thing about him – his name is ugly. Just like his father. <i>Fathers</i>. Cancer and Garbage made Sleaze. A name for debauchery and wretchedness. He’s lived up to the wretched part. A stupid boy. A worthless boy.)
(God, he’s so sick of stories.)
And how would one describe him? A simple boy, a purple so dark it’s almost black until the right light hits him. His knees are bare and hairless, a symptom from a life he once spent praying.
(The prayers he knows are garbled and nonsensical. His father grasped at religion but never quite took hold of it.)
He is pathetic, a man who no one loves, who has no children. One father is dead, the other one was dead but now isn’t (that’s a story, too, a long one, not fit for today). He doesn’t know his handful of half-siblings.
He is alone. He is stupid and alone.
The hand writes and, having writ, moves on. It writes a name. It writes <i>Sleaze</i>.
The scent of ink is so strong he wants to vomit. He’s no longer in the meadow. He’s somewhere blank and white. There are other names, blurred, and he doesn’t recognize any of them, anyway. But his name stands out like a bleeding wound.
<i>Sleaze</i>.
A pause. Another tugging sensation as the author plays with him, with the idea of him, of such a wretched thing writ into this work.
<i>Sleaze was</I> - no. Erased.
<i>Sleaze is</i> - no. Erased.
He doesn’t know the tense of this, only that the whole thing makes <i>him</i> tense, muscles taut and coiled in his shoulders and when he tries to scream it’s into a white void.
<i>Sleaze,</i> scrawls the pen, and thus he is written, thus he is brought into this, a story waiting to be told.
<center><font color="white" style="font-family:times new roman; font-size:20pt; line-height:12px; letter-spacing:2pt;">sleaze</font>
<font size=2><font color=white> cancer x garbage</font></i></font>
</font></a></center></font></tr></td></table></tr></td></table></center>
<center><font color="white" style="font-family:times new roman; font-size:9pt; line-height:12px; letter-spacing:2pt;"><i>
I’ll worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies
tell you my sins so you can sharpen your knife</i></font></center>
<font style="font-family:times; font-size:12px; letter-spacing:1; line-height:normal; color: #D0D0D0 ;">
Sleaze only knows terrible stories.
His life is rich with them (he once came face to face with a creation from another story, another author, a clown with grinning red lips and a laugh like rats scampering on broken glass, screaming <i>you’ll float you’ll float you’ll float</i>). They are all terrible, and he wears them writ in exhaustion across his face, in his unstable mind, his sleepless nights.
(There are nightmares, ceaseless and unrelenting, he wakes up in cold sweats, sometimes with tears on his cheeks. Sometimes thinking of an old, old mantra: <i>she loves us.</i>)
He is not thinking of stories, as he moves through the meadow. He is thinking of nothing – he feels best, when he thinks of nothing – when he thinks only of his feet. One before the other.
He feels a tug, low in his abdomen. He smells something acrid – ink.
A story. A beginning. <i>Once upon a time.</i>
He’s had enough of stories. Of beginning. He’s ready for endings. A denouement.
“Don’t,” he says out loud. Begs. “Not again.”
The tugging is stronger. The scent of ink, stronger.
(A thing about him – his name is ugly. Just like his father. <i>Fathers</i>. Cancer and Garbage made Sleaze. A name for debauchery and wretchedness. He’s lived up to the wretched part. A stupid boy. A worthless boy.)
(God, he’s so sick of stories.)
And how would one describe him? A simple boy, a purple so dark it’s almost black until the right light hits him. His knees are bare and hairless, a symptom from a life he once spent praying.
(The prayers he knows are garbled and nonsensical. His father grasped at religion but never quite took hold of it.)
He is pathetic, a man who no one loves, who has no children. One father is dead, the other one was dead but now isn’t (that’s a story, too, a long one, not fit for today). He doesn’t know his handful of half-siblings.
He is alone. He is stupid and alone.
The hand writes and, having writ, moves on. It writes a name. It writes <i>Sleaze</i>.
The scent of ink is so strong he wants to vomit. He’s no longer in the meadow. He’s somewhere blank and white. There are other names, blurred, and he doesn’t recognize any of them, anyway. But his name stands out like a bleeding wound.
<i>Sleaze</i>.
A pause. Another tugging sensation as the author plays with him, with the idea of him, of such a wretched thing writ into this work.
<i>Sleaze was</I> - no. Erased.
<i>Sleaze is</i> - no. Erased.
He doesn’t know the tense of this, only that the whole thing makes <i>him</i> tense, muscles taut and coiled in his shoulders and when he tries to scream it’s into a white void.
<i>Sleaze,</i> scrawls the pen, and thus he is written, thus he is brought into this, a story waiting to be told.
<center><font color="white" style="font-family:times new roman; font-size:20pt; line-height:12px; letter-spacing:2pt;">sleaze</font>
<font size=2><font color=white> cancer x garbage</font></i></font>
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