Semi-automatic #1

I wake with spiders spin­ning their slither­ing webs across my eyes, and taste them hatch­ing their eggs on my lazy, lolling tongue. There’s a rolling, salty, dirty ocean drag­ging my limbs down into its oily depths. I mur­mur ques­tions and wait for answers. Do you still keep keep your plants in an open-air cup­board? Do you still pin your thoughts on a cork board? Do you still scrawl your night­mares on the front of your fridge? Do you still scurry up the stairs because you’re afraid of shad­ows? I don’t hear any replies, so I scrunch the spindled insects in my skin-shard fists and cover the wounds with mere ghosts, the sticky remains of bloody Elastoplast. Pick­ing up the knife, I bru­tally slice away the half of me that’s still alive, that might still be of use to devi­ous enemies and for­eign spies intent on caus­ing harm to the national, notional interest.

Speak to me in slurs and stop­gaps, whis­per to me in riddles. Who knows?

Hey, grue­some. Hey, fuck­face. I look out front, dumb­struck by solitude, and snap to sud­den, wet-dream sod­den and awful, aroused atten­tion. I am a poor sol­dier, a worse war­rior, a failed fighter, a devi­ant on record for crimes never com­mit­ted. I’ll com­mis­er­ate with you later. Right now, I have a storm to attend to and a light­ning bolt to catch. Hold on to the chicken wire, fuck­ing battery-powered bat­tery chicken bat­tery hen and plucked bird for slaughter. Squawk to the cloud-ridden skies and scream, scream, scream, scream, scream. Scream until you’re afraid. Afraid of some­thing, afraid of some­thing that you can’t even give a name. You can’t even christen the baby. You can’t smother a still-breathing foetus.

Are you afraid? I’m afraid. I’m afraid. I’m afraid. AFRAID.