By day a ghoul, by night also a ghoul but admitting with a sense of
defeat that it's time for bed. Making an honest living
even though it's hard to realize, just before falling asleep, that
his profession is just another form of burrowing and digging
for significance. In rhinoplasty, before you get to the meaty bits –
consciousness, a tie-dyed sun – there's just cartilage and bone.
The organic undersmell of the rubber yoga mat that stores its subterranean
alien code. Meditating (and yogaeing) on this surface is nice,
but at a certain point one pukes. Really pukes – what looks like something
grown in a lab.
The ghoul had once thrown up an antique urn and placed it on
the mantlepiece and still mourns its contents, whatever that may be.
The urn is also a spaceship, and after many years parked on
the mantlepiece slobbered dirgefully over it has, not surprisingly, taken off.
Its transcendental edges inside digging into the backs of its pilot's legs.
You're going pretty fucking fast when things begin stalling around you.
Zen sick – bits of pizza dismantled by a beer.
Sliding in under the curtain or hiding as 3D constructed flakes.
Concealed in a sloth's social behavior. The spring-loaded stripper
behind the curtain offers only her toes as a clue – but then the
chimera scrunches unloading millions of years of stored recoil;
the small new frisky satellite the ghoul had also dug out
of someone's face and placed in a showcase plows through
the dandruff explosion. Flipper heat in its wake.
In one episode of Star Trek, late one night when he couldn't sleep,
the ghoulish surgeon had seen Spock leaving it up to jive-ass emoticons
in his emails to articulate his heady emotions. And that might have been a
valuable lesson! The resonant blat of good viscera isn't produced by
aiming cat food at a harp. In control of one's own actions.
(Don't dodge their consequences too late. And one day suddenly just
falling off the wall and jerking entertainingly on the floor.)