[Solucet]

Transgressive prose: a personal apocalypse (in both primary senses of the word). I really should write more of this, actually, it comes insanely naturally to me -- which is probably indicative of something.

Cracks in Glass

Another moment like staring at the sun, watching everyone begin to die while I sit on the porch and smoke a cigarette -- for old time's sake. A moment like sitting on the clouds, the sky above me a carpet of pavement and cement buildings all lit by their fluorescent advertisements, light painting the smoke around my head like a halo of imperial violet.

It's enough to make your heart break off, and I'd watch it fall apart, a reminder: take a breath of the air and let it circulate, illuminate the arteries, tilt my head up to take a glance at the streets and watch the coronas while they suck in the sadness. Neon veins can paint a map to your soul.

Inhale the exhaust, pick the plastic from my teeth -- their mechanical abortions -- and watch them fall as they float like a feather blowing in the wind, the crack that echoes across the blacktop and billboards enough to make the mothers sell their eggs for dollar bills.

I'd eat them from their wombs just to keep them from dying so alone and misplaced, because you know they'd sell you everything you want to buy.

I lighten up, take it all in, thoughts sinking like the black holes in the chest of each dead star. So strike a pose, pull out the mask before the glow comes flowing from the mouths of all the automatic organ grinders and pools in the web of God before His legs can feel the vibrations.

You are desperate for anything but this.

So I'll be your Antichrist. I'll be the one to eat you alive until all that's left is a face left to burn across the surface of your latest cataclysm, bored into the flesh of time and left alone to face all of the imminent Truth.

And I'll laugh when they tell me that they sold their souls for just the slightest flicker of relief.