Wow my liver is doing a number in terms of processing. Hmm...what pointless topic to ramble about while my eyes are closed and the words come.

The sewer drain descended upon my vision, distended from age by the algae wrinkles scattered across its brow. I breathed in, moving past, knowing the smell would get better. I stood up, falling down in the river beneath me. Weight had not weight, I was not here. I couldn't be here.

And then I looked up, through a hole past iron grating thick with red vines of rust. There was sunrise, beckoning my vision to scan the hills before me. It was vast, planar, almost an illusion to the sepulchure of yesterday. Waking up, falling down...that concrete over me, the smell next to me...I loved her, needed her...I feel down in the water, pants soaked through already. Why.

I stared at it for ages. The sun moved across the horizon, smattering the soft tufts with a wonderful earthy crimson brown. Then off, off to sleep again amidst colors that weren't nearly half as amusing.

I moved back, struggling to get my bearing. Pipes, tunnels, filled with sewage, reaking from exposure to profuse and pulsating globules of flesh-colored muck. It hissed, squeaked. Wanted me. I wanted her. She was there. She smelled. Why.

Where was I again. Was I home? Could I have come back home again? Were mother and father here underneath the water? I checked. The taste feels like my eyes.

Walking is simple. I find it amusing. I always loved you without knowing what you were. Just your scent, your essence around me was nice. It gave assurance. Your face had that odd-skin color...or was that your back. Well.

Water sloshing underneath, shoes cramped around a swollen, bleeding feet. My skin is wrinkled, folding upon folds to shelter itself.

I loved her...and she died here...her home. Why am I in her home?

-----

Drunk rambling is tasty.

I wonder what it is you're doing now. Reading me, wondering about nothing in particular. I'm an activity, something to fill in minutes with. I wonder if I know you, care about you. Sometimes I think advertisement would be the ultimate high: hundreds of people wandering by to view the christmas tree I had erected in the subway within the bars.

I'd be there, some sculpted black man poised in mid-crouch to tighten the muscles of my buttocks. My arm and hand covering my face, wrapped around my head in comfort. Tinsel, tinsel and sprinkles flowing down me, around me like midnight on new year's. Passing by, just now. I like that though, but it scares me.

Am I always a spectacle? When am I not? I have no identity when I am along. I merely exist. Others make the existence come and give me something to be a foil or mirror to. The black man would pose for you, bend for you to erect himself to whatever desires you hold. Watch him dance. He likes you...he loves you, adores everything about what you want. He will comply, he will be silent. He will be you...and the love will pass for a second.

A second of smoke and screens. Where does he go, what does he do when the cameras are off? Sitting, pondering.

At least it'll all wash away one day, bleed into a sloppy blend of inks and paints. I running down, down into rivulets of perspiration as the heart stops, the mind focuses, and nothing more is left than eyes, eyes staring right into you, through you. I will be dead, a fossil, with no membrane to coat me. You will be my sex, my fire, and give me shelter under your auspices.

You will be God to hollow bones, elephant man caretaker. The walls could tell you...you could tell you...stories, so many stories.

And there, in the middle, would be you, surprised that a skeleton could still bend any way you like it.

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