3 sweet treats

ErehwoN

One day, all these things will have no more importance. I Breathe, so breathe me, I smell your sticky future. My breath will die of anguish, my guts twists alone now, flexible shit, resilient, beautiful and shiny. I don't spit anymore, and now my sweat is icy, there on the front, and behind my neck. I sell my nights, nights smelling like knife, tar and lamppost, dirty mucous membranes, sick glands. I sell my nocturnal miscarriages, abortions of my meal, my fingers like knitting needles. I play to make angels, naughty little sidewalk angels. Head in the placenta. I am a class by myself, the liters of passion, and on the walls, sticky in hieroglyphics: "Drunkenness, I write your name."
I experienced the same semblance of love than anyone. And I know that no one cares. Starting with "her" and then it continues with me. I experienced hatred, much more attractive. Hatreds body to body, the hatred cheating, the screwdriver hideout in the race. The arms as chopped meat. The jet red when you have been drinking white wine is it a stigmata ? Or do you think that it's the transfiguration? A lot of time listening to samples of flushing, washing machines, samples of nails into the machine, the crackle of radio: Luigi Russolo.
Here it is. One night with me.

Meat on a No-Postcard

Sleep standing at work, like sleeping in meat, with meat sleeping inside of me. And the break, there's a post there to navigate, should transfer the moron seeking an apartment, I have some urgency to spit. I have to write that my imaginary friends on my blog concrete. News from my vacation, here it is sunny, the neon shine their bleached rays on the moist mouth of my colleagues holidaymakers working in meat. Get a sunbath in the synthetic coldness of the cool room, the heat makes us do neither cold nor hot. My hands are beautiful, peeled by gloves with protective chain mail. They, too, they shine with neon lights and white walls. The meat and I smoke heavily.
This is not a postcard. Here, workers who cross in the corridors are mutually fear, with their dirty white combinations with tiny stains of blood, knife in hand and mask on the face. We are the bleached Army serving stomachs. We deliver battle against the animal kingdom, against the beef plenty, against the fat and the skin. Soldiers from hunger, the mask is not just for hygiene, I am certain.
I slip my blade between offered ratings. The animal have no reaction. Neither do I. I'm gonna sleep on the carcass. My sex as a knife planted in his flesh, such an intimate relationship, and my mask, it's just for hygiene. I'm not certain.

I am a Cosmonaut

Or a astronaut, well, a drunkonaut, a painonaut, a I'm-going-to-break-my-brains-again-o-naut, honestly, not very clear - a "not to be" prepared and optimized for exploration of things that are the most insignificant. Swimming in gravity. Physical and mental preparation. A combination cleaner and, at least in thought, and the blond hair on the side. I greet my family and jump in my capsule.
Rations carefully aligned of freeze-dried soups, quick done quick drink, easy to vomit, sorted the parts not to make pieces. Exit the Minestrone who finished caked thick on the bottom of bowl. I have mushroom, the velvety field, and that shamanic confined to the bizarre mushroom powder as an infusion and ready to travel. That's all dried, while dry and powdered in any futuristic shiny bags inside, carefully filmed with a film food. High technology. I'm a fucking hi-tech shaman.
Optimize its anxieties and its drunkenness, and wonder what lesson can be drawn - what such a behavior can mean today.