Thursday, August 23, 2012

all the broken people

The spinners are the most obvious. Tiny delicate things with smiles like a blinking neon: the shades and hues in and out and affected by what is placed nearby, by your eyes even, and certainly by whether you reach in a hand and give them a spin, whether they bounce for you, whether they deign laugh, or shriek, or bite down on a lip, the trickle of blood your doing and the subsequent red smeared grin your doing, and then the ripple of bloody grins crosses the room like a sudden wave, this spectacle you've initiated: like kick starting a motorcycle, the one foot leg digging, and then they spin and blink and then they all squeal their distinct lovely tiny squeal, a symphonic blessing of sorts when you walk alone in a room of shards and can feel no pricks upon your own skin, can feel only the most absurdly outlandish, and the spectacle of the spinners spinning (they howl now, in unison, this pack of tiny broken pain emitters) borders on surreal, perhaps exceeds surreal for those whose paths have remained narrow and steady, and to those I offer caution: what do you think hell will be like? And shouldn't you be preparing for it now?

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