things looked better with his
eyes closed
they
sounded better when he didnt listen to them
smelled
better
when he didnt respire breathe through his nose
and
everything odd and familiar felt better too when he denied his pain and pleasure
none of this would be suspect
when all this was run under the auspice the
unrelenting tyranny of his Imagination
it revoked his humanness flayed off the smallest rags of his meat that
refused to give way
whenever he could he shuttered
his eyes and locked out anything that might try to enter
he was hypervigilant
he
played out the processes begun that he
witnessed to their reasonable ends
and as dominoes topple
he didnt want to see it end anymore than
someone who truly relishes again and again reruns rebroadcasts
or see another 16-penny nail gingerly tapped into their coffin
even when his eyes were opened
they refused what they saw
and
opticked optioned to enforce one of a myriad of other
possibilities
he couldnt trust his own eyes to
be honest with him if they became so enamored
when he listened
particularly
if perforce to listen to commands
it was as if a hypnotist had
gotten their hands on him prior and stuffed a litany of suggestions or cue words
into his absorptive brain . . . triggers that disconnected him from reality
into other realms of reality which were easily afoot but denigrated by the mainstream
he could follow the mainstream
and go from Point A to Point B to Point C ad nauseam (seamy) swiftly and directly
he could . . .
but
then what of all the eddies peeling off the mainstream
those delicate whirlpools
mottled cesspools and fetid muddy holes ignored primordial soups strong stenches and spirits that the thinned broth and
fast flow of mainstream shot you past
those
smells their smells you could taste on your tongue and maybe retch
whod need a nose for that?
a nose that would twist its way
around at its displeasure and refuse to venture any nearer
because
the mewling bile rising in their throats would have it so
he didnt care if he sputtered or
choked or even if he vomited
(a
strong uncle and his passion of Limburger taught him to vie for that)
denial -- oh
so Catholic -- fortified him so when he finally sought his pleasure it
had been exquisitely ratcheted up
it
was nearly ecstatic
and ecstasy
wasnt a word
to be casually thrown around or
made common
his Imagination renamed him held his head by his chin and the back of his
skull between its hoary claws and whispered
exhaled hotly in his ear
imaginengine
until
he served his name appropriately
it
withheld his I
withheld
him from being a proper noun
or
name
he would have to earn it and it would be earned in Imaginations good sweet
Time not his
never his
0026, Thursday,
5 3. 15 1804,
Thursday, 5 3. 15
