the booby trap

i live where the walls are painted with s**t and blood. wasted apparitions of incurable castaways hide under the bathtub with the sewer rats, and cockroaches knock on my bedroom door at night. plastic cups stationed haphasardly throughought the place arm themselves with week-old white russians; apathetically prepared to flood stomachs and floors.

here there are no forks.
no milk is left to sour in the fridge.
the sound of termites gorging on innards of attic-door keeps the gnats awake at night, and 24 hour peep-shows play in every detached window--this week's feature: "Blue Hands Finger Out-of-Tune Acoustic Guitars" . the result: dissonance commonly mistaken for cries of ecstasy.

mistake or none, the sounds go unnoticed by droves of once-coveted, frantically-emptied, and promptly-discarded clips of ammunition gone-biohazard, appropriately dressed in little uniforms made from the last roll of toiletpaper. these disguises rape their existences, and their bodies slip through gaping holes in mold-encrusted linoleum.

i live in the shrine of a dead flower whose corpse is worshiped unconditionally by a cult of locusts.

i do not practice organized religion. i believe there is no god. i worship none and am aware that my lack of faith forces my lids from closing and makes my skin glow in the dark. The musings of a radical outcast are victims of assurance fraud--Time and Again insists, and The Words truly believe, that they fall not on deaf ears.

they are both wrong.

Author's Note

try not to get confused.

Reviews

[Steven]

Really gritty... Of course, the first two sentences of hyperbolic imagery coincide with the tormented mind and decrepit self-image of the narrator and her view of her surroundings. The whole scene of this apartment evolves in this way, and by such, so does the character that lives there. Self-hatred runs rampant in the eyes of everything within, showing over and over again the lack of love this soul feels. Internalized rage and loathing, of the kind that is utterly self-destructive, to the point of maltreatment (no kitchen utensils or even basic foods). It is as if the soul is repeating all of the internalized beliefs through the acts done to her earlier in life, only now carrying them out herself. One salvation appears--music. How many tormented souls have turned here? The tragic heart produces a sound so profound, others must come and hear and be hypnotized. And yet, it may not be music at all.. It could be the sex of a prostitute... It could be the combination of both; perhaps someone who had all the dreams of an aspiring musician, but none of the luck, and the drug abuse has left this soul blued, but no longer charmed in that, reckless-rocker sort of way. Now she must turn to the sex trade to survive.

"The musings of a radical outcast are victims of assurance fraud--Time and Again insists, and The Words truly believe, that they fall not on deaf ears."

Great word play.. Time insists this person hear that life is running out, and this soul should stop wasting it and change, but it falls on deaf ears and nothing is done. "Again" is the remorse, the assurance of future pain if the present course is unaltered, and yet, this soul is trapped in painful habits, and cannot escape.

A very profound piece. I got a lot out of it, and yet I'm sure, not barely half of it.