by Ratón Moreno
On the corner, a house. Dead and black all over—crooked wood, like teeth; wheezing breaths of dying light—laying stagnant amongst rows of healthy houses on a street in Orange, or maybe Los Angeles, or maybe New York. Look: in the bottom left corner the wood was clean—somebody was just there a half-second ago. Look: in the top right window you see a silhouette of a man inserting a flaming hot rod into his colon and having it exit out through a gash in his teeth. Take a good look and commit it to memory—it is irrelevant.
In the back seat of a taxi (no driver, only the thick hairs of his stringy head). He looks out the window and sees a great golden pyramid. The driver turns. He is transfixed. Now at his destination, he didn’t ask to be there. He didn’t ask anything at all. And now he’s out—outside the car, outside the house—facing it; facing it out on the front yard, facing it in front of the entrance—and pass through. Pass through the door, through the windows, through the floors, and unto the basement below, like a toilet.
Now he’s arm-bound. Bent back, shoulders touching, hemmed via an invisible zip tie (or maybe a lock, or maybe a twine). On a dusty beige couch in near darkness, two others joined beside him, the same dilemma—as it always is—perpetually screeching, effectively culling their lungs. Inserted into his brain, a child steps forward, rotting and all grey save for red eyes, illuminating through the dark,—(screeching, shouting)—hunched down as if to fight, and fades incessantly.
Dimming in from the banks, before them was Him. A man, all naked, no skin—his flesh bitten, scorned, and shred completely from his body, and his ribs were torn open, revealing his colon, lungs, and naked heart. Fused to sharpened stilts in the form of a cross, the wood pierces directly through his body; through his palms, his feet, his throat, his heart. His head tilts back, but his eyes counteract, staring forth emotionlessly at the man on the couch.
Surprisingly, he is calm. Thoroughly sedate, but undividedly baffled. The man on the cross stares at him, and he stares back. He notices the satellite’s dream heart—sees how bare it is, how the defiling spike interpolates through the tissue—and notices it begin to beat. Faster, quicker it pulses, and the screams shine through.
The House—“Lord, the kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in America.”
Satellite Heart—“And rest thee upon them, the duchtars into open sum pence light str err cellar door”
Gradually, the heart speeds up. Nobody is able to do anything. They are all ensnared and motionless ^in the relentless markings of forging past, in the adam and on the trees, smelling, tasting, submitting to the pregnant head the faust and the sauna, lucky be to the bride of the man on the cross locking in on one’s pride and prize, true on the treasure trove himmilum santos.^
Hours and hours on end, neverending. The heart warps and pulsates, grimy with blood and flesh—and the satellite keeps staring (He’s alive)—badum, badum, badum, badum, badum, badum badum badum badum badumbadumbadumbadum—until lastly reaching his final climax,
blown and blood everywhere.