How is the view... down here, at the bottom of my hole? The cat never lies, and he's content in knowing there's many more doors to be opened... our fingers live in the earth, as tills we turn like worms, earth to earth. Sacrifice. Diana has suggested taking all of the pieces out of the box, spreading them across the the floor for inspection and dissection... while Richard laughs at the destined frustration. Come down and lay next to me while we ogle at pieces in sight... the fondling hasn't begun, so there's no need for lubrication. The choir demands we make clear the context of Lubrication... there are three types herein, your efforts will still be needed. Social Lubricant, is any substance that releases your natural inhibitions: drugs, alcohol, or ritual. Sexual Lubricant, is the fluid used to decrease the irritating effects of too much friction: tears, bile, or money. Finally, Life Lubricant, is the substance acquired from years of anguish and suffering: blood, feces, or vomit. Let not your glasses become clouded... return your view to the pieces, as they wiggle and scamper in delight.
The ones with the most vigor would be the choir, several pieces uneven in agreement . Then there are Diana and Richard, two entirely different people that live on the outside, looking in. There are memories and deeds, scattered with care... feeding each other with doubt and flesh. Maria has a corner of her own, built out of the compounding interest of my soul. Stuffed animals running with scissors and Jesus bowing his head in shame. A chair named virginity, cold with sweat and vinyl... they won't come out until we stop crying. Must. Stop. Matted hair and knotted bed sheets... they belong together in a sense, but separated in time. Broken fingernails stuck in the concrete and razor blades gone on holiday in the Swiss Alps. Layers of lies and masks piled on trash bags of sun rotted flesh.... the pupils dilate and saliva thickens in anticipation. Blood. So much blood. There's mine, yours, hers, his, and theirs... I know the scent and taste of each, and the color of which it flowed. There's my screams and the one's that silence them... with a hidden jar used in secret for lubrication. Teeth. The teeth that bite, the ones that gnash, and the broken ones... a mixture of mouths, some more even then the others. Broken fingers and guitar strings that suspend the life once known. The snake, the desert, and the scampering of shadows and dirt, not from earth, as a pillow. And then there's Serah Weaver, dancing in the darkness by herself.
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