Set's story.

if
dkjhsdf
4one
s&&&&&grated
steckstuckstockstack
whateveryoulikewhateveryoulike

he
said
so
slo
lie
(e?)

i will never lie to you
he said
he said
lies are on my tongue and not my hands
he said



ha.

he.

ha.























ha.

he.

ha.

between the river and inside the stone, sarcophogus fresh for saintly appendix, a walnut shell (once cracked, twice removed, three times consumed) bore a hole through the sand for the sake of oxygen. the scales got the best of the sponges, running them through coral furnaces and sulfuric dependencies, leaving in their wake an extinguished lust and a penchant for nonsequitur syllables. nonanon, nonanon, nonanon deed, quivverum taciturned a soiled greed-- between the rhythm of the water and the labour of the sea, what was at once half dead returned... and ceased to be.

a ratnest's respect for a kelp bed's disjunction, there were nine holes to peer from with all the honesty of the sky's greyed wisdom. skeletal hands shook in the fisherman's net, steadyingstudyingteetering on an attempt to burn all the way back to the ocean's fakeforged floor. as comforting as a whore's broken moans and as terrible as a seabird's severed cries,

he
spoke
no

n

a


m



e

be
ca
us
e
it
ma
de
no
se
ns

(e)


2



.




.





.



there was a body dumped on the shore, left in the bay, rotting in the tide-- it sat for eight days, wondering why the sky looked so fucking bleak, even with the coming and the going of the sun and the set and the rise and the fall and the coming and the going of each constellation and their supernova deathwishes, grey eyes still called it BLACK when the clouds hazed with the pink and the purple and the orange and the red of the horizon's unkempt farewell.

he only had eight, and seven were past.
he saved it
for the morning
for the morning
for the morning
for the morning
for the morning
for the mourning

where nothing would suffice

ontheshoreontheshoreontheshore
where carrion free and carcass delight
cadavered a body from the muted drippings
of a
fisherman's
undismantled
skeleton.

notonemore
notonemore
notonemore

afraid.





(they called it a brain
and his wasn't right
so you see so you see
and it moves and it powers and it makes you fuckin' crazy.)



the boy and his damp feathers shook the sand from his fronds and, his lips fully equipped and his earlobes eviscerated, he took the sun into his heartstrings and he moved he moved he moved. he went where his instincts cited, his second sight tertiary to the other four he depended upon. he bottled his stoicism and sold it for higher, survived on trinkets and disappropriation and the fluids seeping from his throat and the blood clotted under his nails and a stupidity derived of ignorance-- a poor boy's inability to eat because he had never confirmed the substance to swallow.

he discovered in a week's time that some people were meant to live just as some were meant to die. he also discovered, in the second day's hours, that whatever went down would inevitably come up-- and it gave him a sort of peace, to know that he had a place that noonenoonenoone could ever get to.

he filled his stomach with garbage and scrap metal: portions of a little girl's doll (the eyes tasted best), beautiful pieces of decadent fabric, a million and one coins that he collected from the gutters and the roadways, from the pleased fingers of customers and the traded mouths of the whores he rallied with, fingernail clippings, orange rinds, uncooked rice and its birdseed accompaniments, a jade(d) pendant, a golden chain, a paper lantern torn to shredded components for easier consumption, poison oak and bits of bark, a letter from a lover who couldn't mean much, some nuts, some bolts, some gears and washers, one hundred thousand splinters, and a single shard of glass.

when the skies grew jealous of the grey in fireform eyes, they wept for their inability to match the cause-- and when the match was struck, the boy took his belly full of treasure and found a place to stay; for the sake of safety, for the meaning of sanity, for a place to vomit, a place to expel, and a place to lay his gangrene corpse down to die for a day, or two, or perhaps, three.

the barn was abandoned, but when he awoke
he was not alone :: enola ton saw eh

the name he managed for himself has become stonecarved and hollow. the reputation he keeps is hardly his own. the life that he leads is becoming slowly his. the man that he sleeps with uses him, but it's

hardly
a
matter
at
all
.



he sings on the streets.
he dances, he plays.
he has a million stories to tell,
even if he can't remember where he learned them.
he has an affinity for fire,
its personality, its fickle fever,
its destruction and its armaments,

BUT

he can't tell left from right,
up from down,
truth from lies,
or the ocean from the sky.

he gets around, still, and he has a talent
for reaching through ribcages and

closing
his
fist

to the bursting point.

(when he comes, he smiles,
not because it feels good
and not because it feels terrible
and not because it feels cheap
and dirty
and lifeless,
but because it's a feeling at all--

and he loves that.)

when he's made his selection
and he's baited another poor fucker into taking him home
and when he concentrates really hard
and breathes so deeply that he can smell
the movement of their pumping bowels
and the sweat beading on their dirty knuckles
when he thinks and he thinks and he
r e f l e x e s
upon
one hundred and one strokes
and
one hundred and one dips
and
one hundred and one breathy baited vivisections

he can shatter a man's heartbeat
with those pale silver eyes
and leave him unconscious,
destined for another day's broken home orgasm,
or leave him dead for another to find forty seven hours later
tangled in their sweat stained
anonymous
coldcalculatedandcomplacent

sinnertoned bed sheets.

(like a noose,
like a child,
like a whore a whore a whore



like a killer)



when it rains, he likes to look to the sky and wonder what he is and what he was and where he came from and where he was destined to be and whywhywhywhywhywhywhywhywhywhywhy everything happens as everything does, and when he drags himself back inside, sopping wet and purging yet another jade pendant and its knotted gold chain, yet another mouthful of histrionic, sadistic poetry, yet another empty dryheave of malnourished bile, he lays himself to sleep with a placid smile and the idea that there is nothing better than this.

broken knuckles
and an inability
to know any fucking better.