from: succubus in my pocket

it was a callback about the previous call to check my satisfaction level with the original call, before I could answer by informing them that I had never received the original message, I was answering the question of satisfaction to one of the later call backs about the original call content.

I answered using a color rating system - red for desire, blue for intellect, and yellow for an overall cumulative effect. mostly, I stuck with reds and yellows, which gave me an overall rusty glow and free tickets to the opening of the virtual mall.

for some reason, despite hue or color, and / or whatever the pervious positional mode was (such as flamingo), it made me want to buy a home with wheels and have a different address every day, but I am here, sitting alone in my lavender encasement with green fluorescent positioning walls surrounding me. In the upper corner of the room there is a framed clipping from rembrant's self portrait; sold on the open market as an authentic replica. azure neon zapping lights surround the rembrant to keep the flies away, sending out the occasional zap of a slaughtered insect. the television is on the all silent movie study channel, the sound is up all the way just in case of random adoptions and instantaneous decay.

I sit in the silence of color, I sit here on my davenport, combination bed / wet bar, surrounded by sounds and amplified combinations. I have enough money to pay bills and form partial discontent vocabulary building blocks, though this never seems to work.

I sometimes wonder if it wouldnt be better to live in a bus station with a seeing eye dog who could read the headlines and adopts a neither-here-nor-there attitude, bites the hand that feeds it, pees in the corner on leftover newspaper bundles, then languishs in coin operated rest rooms.

if I had only one wish or prayer, or won the lottery of dreams, I would make sure my end had some poignancy to it, some dull thud to awaken the mind, calling attention at the last second, ushering in a new era in mirco-waving popcorn without the afterburn. then I wouldn’t have sit here for days vetoing the stagnate smell of rotting flesh or scour and clean the bones with a powder that promises to clean teeth whither than any white latex paint could ever imagine itself to be.

many words seem to just glance away, spouting incepted responses that have no outer edges, no warning precipice, no preleap menu with beforehands, slightly moistened prebirth oil, draped in a gentle tongue, speaking of the on coming.

no, the end is just pulsating fluorescent green asbestos clinging to the lungs, and a flesh debate that claims effect in the justification hallway, devoid of morning light, that creeps along nuances, clinging to corner dust mites.

asphyxiation seems like an option, but with what; died noodles. maybe, I could gag on undigested thoughts, such as flight, which is nothing more than a colonialist aspiration, manifest as time + size + speed = absolute control of the heavens, which at the time had a cap of well . . . let’s say, a mile or so, that now extends to some god with a gold recording of *Johnny B. Goode* and *taking the night train.*


standing in the middle of this fun house room, a room outfitted with mirrors to fit my favorite distortion. I slowly remove every layer of clothing that was meant to protect, preserve, and position my stagnation station. standing here naked, with nothing but an endless reflection of a body in distortion, touching my body as I would feel fruit or hold a premature infant,I begin to explore all the regions, every possibility of statehood, all the while wondering what it would be like to not have a penis or to have a penis, or what it would be like to have a vagina or not have a vagina, or have both or neither or something else; a drainage basin, and / or a drop bottom au naturel. I could try on parts, removing them like a cheap halloween ooze.

for most humans the thought of trying on parts and rearranging them retraumatizes their subconscious about the original fruit fly debacle; that is, if it was an apple, or guava; I personally do not think guava, but who knows? whether apple or guava, it is the month of june or later later. if you can imagine how easy it would be, once the part(s) where installed, to do dishes and / or drive a tractor.

for the most part I would have loved nothing more then one voice, one state i.d., one set of clothes, instead of enough for two hundred different engendered states and a few unexplored territories.

and it is not just genitalia to consider, there are all sort of combinations . . . I mean one could have breasts and a dick, two dicks and a one breasts, a hundred breast to feed the multitudes with. then there is hair, I mean you could have a cock, comb, play girlyboytoy long hair and hard as nails breast . . . use your creativity. all this would be simple, a body part here or a body part there, changing at will or not at will, sometimes the machine is put on random and in the morning I would wake up and have to take one part off and put another on before I walked out the door. I could also add voice modulation from betty boop to the honorable arnold sheepherder, with an ever increasing progression of change. body parts could move in and out and on and off of my body before my voice modulation could possibly catch up. I could start by taking on mix match characteristics from debunked goddess and gods to cartoon characters. I could breakthrough this gender thing, truly let go, there would be no limits, I could be tall or short, wide or ambiguous to nonnonexistent.


and then the changes would take on a life of their own, changes would happen so fast all I culd see is a blur, a constant images of the past, leaving only a shadow with an on/off switch.

my mind blurs as it fills with the cast of possible characters I am, can be, could be, am becoming, or just left behind. I can see parts of bodies attached then removed. this parade of after images with before images, these dim thoughts seem to be increasing in speed to a frenetic automatic delusion, the surface content formed its own bubble that could pop upon request. there seems to be a presence of electronic suicide. a whirlwind of power that has taken over my body and overridden the flux indicator.

where is www? how long has it been . . . an hour, day a lifetime, ten lifetimes? what one of these two hundred personalities knows, or cares? who speaks? whos listening?

I can feel the bubble in my brain begin to burst, with no options