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{down} matthew rounsville standstill fog, brackish. my muscles feel like windshield wipers. eyes, the cool vapors of rubbing alcohol on shiny black plastic. I repeat myself. a handless clock, six nailholes in the wall. armies that pile on top of each other in the name of progress-- a skyscraper of crushed men and women, children the antennae at the top, open-mouthed. hardly. those damned vapors again. in the bedroom nextdoor, a woman strokes the back and chest of a man ecstatically, as if it was his dick. nonchalant pounding. cars. the swish of crisp fabrics. a getting-to-know-you-alarm. flat toad in the parking lot. in the darkness partially jettisoned by the streetlight it looks gelatinous, a reproach to the facade of self-righteousness. I finally exhale to find my mouth a diorama of a historical ruin. to simulate the smoke my lungs are incapable of keeping I scribble on the wall with a grey crayon. laughs. emptied out buckshot casing. snot. when I was a child I was terrified of the things that formed beneath my bed; now it's scary enough to fall asleep knowing what's on my bed. |
