catladysoul:

mwnvcomicsblog:

Mr. Morrison is one of my fave writers of all time
He is up there with Warren Ellis and Bendis for me

Abigail can you buy this for us next time you go comic book shopping ok thanks

I’m free now.

Batter it into my head again-

A tectonic romance with your reflections

With you, before,

when your self was wrapt in nonentities

I felt safer on dead time

than I do now

So hard to catch the clock

I held your breath in orange plastic

Perhaps in five years

you’ll seep out to meet me

Siva black in the coma chasm

a white brite subject suffering on a curb

and nothing to do but avoid the comparison

Keep Mum

words missed just by absence

and the compulsion I feel

to inflict upon the last remaining victims

the trickle I left for you

ridden.

I could remember at once the violet skyscape, scraping the clouds that winced away in nebulous paranoia. Took us weeks to get parked, Anthea. The anther of the glowering antispite is strong, and they lend it to us on loan, you see.

I said I see it, but I feel nothing.

Glanced down on the holocaust below and batted both eyelids without a glimmer of moisture. Took them for weeks before the strobe lights wore off, the thousand flashing greens took hold on the back wall and displayed their symbols seductively. Elongated finger, greased, and it ached to break the tendons necessary to reach them. I left her behind the door. 

I was on the internet. I remembered. I spoke, I said, I said I remembered. And that was the worst of it. So I open my eyes again and the spectrum lactates, gushing into my optic nerve, stinging it with saturated hue. My nostrils flared and a thin spittle of vomit, green, clung to my chin. I barely felt it. My insides were heaving, my oesophagus convulsed, my cerebellum shook. It’s dark, today, and every day. But I saw it once. I saw it, I said, I declared to you I saw it and I say again I saw it and again I form each letter with my tongue until they no longer make sense except to those of you perhaps who take extra care, I said, I – ee – ss – ah – ee – duh. It looks less logical in print, does it not? I said. Say it twice more and it means nothing aloud.

F. no. 672 lite

I could taste the blood and smack, curdling in my deep throat. Gag on it, play on it. The other drug is my woman now. Come home with me, you look like your idol tonight. I scratched my pussy red raw and spent forever trying to work out if it was coming from the inside, too. It’s coming from inside the house.

To meet me on every level, every palindrome paradox I spell out must be penned over to psyche-specific, naivety, academia. Covering them with my white veils of ecstasy they wonder why, cry for the lost polite girl child who never cursed or polluted, had so much benefit that doubt barely existed. I refuse cynicism and oppressive laughter. I refuse rape, in all media, literal, metaphorical especially.

Wish I could drift off on another smoke train to reconcile my differences with the aborted mass of foetuses I come against, but usually beneath and not facing them. I do not want to see your face. Soon it’ll be just another flesh wound on your plate and who knows, then, maybe my tantrum will have subsided and I’ll be attractive, less hysterical for you to compliment your silent pathologies.

I want to inflict it out of me. No solution without destruction, I can’t feel without a thousand fetishised images, projections of personalities embodied within me and crying for my lost honour jacked up on the last rush I moan. Oh, I moan. You are not alone in my mourning. But I am alone when day breaks, always. When the taste fades from my lips, salt, bittersweet rotten fish, candy sticks and sugar crystals, I will spread my arms and legs together with no intention of letting anyone inside, and realise that the first reason I had to stay alive was solitude.

supersonicelectronic:

Jordi Díaz Alamà.

hhhnnnnnnnnggg