Tower of Brahma 62.i Solo Inferno (edit)

6/14/10

To say it was dark, to say I was alone, would be to acknowledge the existence of those words. There was only my flesh, the energy that coursed through it, and the concepts in my grey matter. My skin was drifting apart atom by atom, cell by cell.

I lit up from the inside, glowing crimson within my groin, shifting to orange among my abs, canary yellow from the diaphragm, a burst of green from my sternum, throat tightening around bluish illumination, and purple popped from my forehead. Stoplight magnificence in eternal void.

Pulling a coin from my pocket, a beautiful woman carved into its side. Flipping it over, it mirrored my own third eye, a reflection of my insides shining within. It pulled free from my hand and slipped flawlessly onto the horn of light protruding from my skull.

Fifth Avenue decadence, dollars turning into fabric, less with each season, the money becomes abstract plastic. A new look, a pretty thing to wear, to pretend to be. Each cycle delivering the anti-dote or evolution to last year's debacle. Appearance is all.

Every shred of clothing shows how you feel about yourself. Empty in crisp starched shirts, not caring in cotton, draping yourself in sheer shimmer. You try and capture eyes, daring them to hold you higher, momentary fix for the vacant chest. You never learned to love. You are a void. You don't exist.

A pulse of golden energy rippled down the horn and swept through my body. The ring was gone. Absorbed. Passed through my person. I felt as if a rotten piece of my lungs were torn from my body. A sensitive, band-aid ripped off absence. A tumor of black smoke evaporated before my eyes.

In my left palm I held another coin. I had it pressed against my crotch, the red beam from my erect cock embraced the metal's cold touch, slipping over it like a second skin, a receptacle to withdraw into. On the side upwards on the coin I saw an image of a demonic goat face stretching thin as it pulled down over my shaft.

She walks by, the bar freezes, and you're alone, the patrons all incidental nobodies as you take her in. The smell sifting from her hair as it brushes up against the exposed skin of her back, skin that dips down the curve of her spine, dropping into a dip above the crack of her dress.

You spin the room around, diving among the onlookers, wiping your eyes over her bust, riding the division of the plunging neckline, sharp chest bones highlighting the subtle sternum rib rifts in her cleavage. You want to throw her down and love her.

Your eyes drift higher as you lower your brow. Nose twitch, smirk, inhaled breath, prowling on top of her, pinned in your grasp, smiles stifled on her lips, hair tussled as your grip, slides up and across her flesh. Gripping, biting, rubbing your chin over her stomach.

She leaves her body, electric jolt of pleasure pumping from her womb, a trigger clicked as shivers shot to her toes, tensed in an orgasmic clutch. She comes. You leave. Your use is fulfilled. Activated another to a higher calling. You're not allowed to connect with her. Any of her.

My cock feels like dead weight, a thing of wet clay, falling apart in my grip. I panic for a moment before realizing that it doesn't matter. Let it melt away. It only caused false ego, obsessive territorial marking instrument of my destruction. There is no salvation in the phallic. Only a load of empty enlightenment.

The semen seeped into my stomach, dripping into the cracks, gooping its way through intestines. Liquid life, plasma seed paste, a short lived spaceship out of the body universe into the egg, where one would strive to become a living entity in a larger reality. Only...there is no egg.

I am a shell, meat, a gear that grinds itself free of white grease. Mechanical masturbation drawing its strength from my guts, which are all becoming slippery and sliding free from me. There's no food inside, never been much of an eater, the sickly lining always misaligning my meals.

Never was I taught balance. I do it to excess, then diminish in guilt and depression from the over-consumption. If I feed my problem, it dies, but if I starve it, it will suffer. I will suffer. I should suffer. If I deny my needs I control my body, therefore myself. I exist because I can damage myself. Spite is my sustenance, bitterness my bread.

The snout that was my belly button, my rolls crumbling away, breasts drooping into pig ears, I was dissolving. Whole slabs broke free and plopped into non-existence. A torso of a man, my arms flailing about, unsteady in my undoing. I grip my sternum, slipping digits in-between ribs, dug my nub-like fingertips inside, pressing deep into my lungs.

And I tore myself wide open. An emerald elegance erupted from my chest cavity. A shaggy chlorophyll presence puffed out and blossomed. The air, or lack thereof, dried its leaves into crispy brown chips, twinkling into the breeze of damnation in a billion flakes.

Soil that once fed a great tree, the form of its roots still inverted in its dirt mold. There is no purpose now, nothing to feed, to have bloom inside you. All that remains is dug up earth, a gaping wound, nature's broken heart. Packed down tight, perhaps growing the means to dissolve a corpse. A host to worms, maggots, bacteria. It dies in you.

So why bother? Give up the struggle. Life is dead. There remains nothing to fight for. Your purpose has been fulfilled. Propagation mechinization. Now go listen to sad tunes, have a drink of scotch, sit in your simple self-pity...and die. There is no point. That is all.