Tuesday, November 15, 2005

Trigger

The End, no safety nor sorprise.
The End...
I'll never look into your eyes again.

It is a melody that initiate the Thing.
Some ancient song toss me, like an unwanted cigarette end, a memory. This memory revives rotten nerves and the Thing starts.

Like a dark cold fire. Like a bright shadow; leaning out from the dim gloom among my braincells, offering me a teethless smile.

This was the warning: I put beers on the fridge, I order a pack of cigarettes (that has arrived at this very instant) and I pull out the scotch from its hideout.

Then come the symptoms: Tachycardia, my sight is blue and the world is pulsing; a sudden thirst that compels me to take the beers out of the fridge, my taste is vast and dark; To walk nervously around the living-room, whispering and nodding; To smoke a lot, expectantly.

The big-buttocked muse dictates.

And I punch and hit the keyboard with bloodshot eyes and lustily look, smiling sickly but happy; and I pray to my muse:

Forbid me to trascend. Let me Transgress.

And the shadow/muse/Thing bends behind my chair and whisper imperatively in my ear.

"Prey Them. Ass-rape reality"

Let us shot Them when we reach the trigger; let us maim Them, reduce Them to cripples, to bags of bones... before they carbonize Our art, Our life.

Let us prey Them.

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