Impractical weapons. part 2

Impractical weapons.

Or, my evening shadow in the sun.

Part-two of Dharma-Discharge.

-------Introduction.-------

Glistening with honey is that rust all over the evening sun, or, some nostalgic projection on my last if not final of deaths. Oh-well long sighs for summer days and goodbyes. Where's the truth in all these lies! But alas, this is an autobiography; no one expects the truth. So, for this reason, I will not write the story of my life imagined as I remember it. But as I remember imagining it. /v\/ Part 1 - Breathing Dead--- As far as I can tell, I was never born. Though I did wake up from whatever void I was not born into. The reality was cold and did not want me anymore; then I wanted it to be something more. In this grew an abyss and from this abyss an absence. And its fundamental hunger is as much the protagonist of this book as I.

Only she was born or, at least, that is how I imagined it. I didn't know her name at first; all I knew was her eyes. A green spiral flame that was my spirit projected and forged. Always receding as I forge it forward from the abyss. Neither from the Atlantic or the milky way, the reality I woke up into, I couldn't wake up from. /v\/ With a smile that was like milk spilling on the floor and a was married far too young. With a voice that was everything if only distant in the darkness. Born free on its death bed yet casual in its discrimination. I did not know her yet, I did not even know she was a she. Everything she said was an echo of myself. An exclamation that is alive on the edge of the horizon. How foreign she made me to myself is what made her so ornamental. No name yet, only a smile and eyes, floating in the darkness. Center ring in a circus of loneliness with every harlequin being some form of hope that she would not leave. /v\/ For years in my cell, I was content. Every day became one process within its rhythm. Holding me down so I would not feel frenzied. Years of crying on shit and piss covered concrete, I was another piece of waste on the floor. She went away some time ago, I was still here, but she had yet to be herself, so all I was missing was part of myself. The fourteen or so foot wide room I had known my whole life through pacing had turned the bottom of my feet into leather. I tried to see pictures in the water stains on the wall. But the fear that someone wanted to hurt me kept me moving and from ever truly being relaxed. I spent my time trying to get out of my brain, away from myself. Then one day, the door, rusting and rotten, screamed open. Ripped off of its hinges. On the day the door opened, the first day of my life had begun. /v\/ Ali Pigeon was a buttercup in place of the sunrise. Standing in the doorway to the outside world. Standing in the doorway as forever, my favorite hope. I didn't know it at the time, but she later told me her country of origin was India. Before these days, I never imagined places. In my isolated weakness, I had found that whatever I was, was not worth the effort. But staring into her familiar if frowning eyes (hidden behind a harpies eagle wrestling mask that covered her nose and forehead) told me that if I messed with her, she would kick my ass. Wearing a one-piece backless olive green bikini with a pair of red and black boots, that had I not seen her take them off (as I eventually would), I would have assumed they were made into her knee pads. Arms crossed; she looked like she was made of bronze and wasn't impressed. Finally, the anxious part of me whispered: "this is no savior." And she with a breathy curl said "hello doctor button" as if she was unwrapping a jolly rancher she continued, "did you miss me? What have you been about, not much without me, I hope." "of course not!" I said...desperate? "what could I be about, in this?" moving my arms in sarcastic praise and amusement at the evidence of absolute evil surrounding me. "this!" I was sitting like a Buddha key chain long abandoned on the floor. "this?" I don't even remember when I started crying, or why it took me so long to feel embarrassed. Or why though I had never had hair on my head yet I felt bald and why even though I had never owned clothes, I felt naked. She wouldn't look away, and I was peering through her. Understanding that I may very well have imagined her, but she wasn't who I imagined. What did that say about me? Ali Pigeon was uncomfortable with her own sympathy, with how good she could be. "you don't have a belly button, why is that Drew?" I responded with caustic laughter then told her the truth, "I don't know."/v\/ Ali Pigeon sways, muscles spinning like green waves. No healthy person could let their eyes linger without letting some imagination toy with how she would feel gripped in one hand. Playful with the idea of what passions could be revealed with two. /\/\/ but his laugh was full of pity even if it's intent was loathing. And what did Ali Pigeon think of this "poor little man, how hateful circumstance can make a man." or "this is my father this is the sort of man who has me as a wet dream." and finally...the truth "...pathetic...." She wasn't made of bronze any more but solely of imagined muscle. Standing with pride in herself with a playful smile that said: "you have won a car, Dr. button." Or, "come, let's have a ride." Her eyes, however, were quiet as she said with a voice of youthful licorice being bit with each word. "let me introduce you to the world by saying you will need help with every step, but you will not get it. Not from me, or anyone else who is being honest." then she turned around and walked out through the door she came in through, she walked out of my fishbowl, out into the everything and I followed. /\/\/ Everything wasn't that much; everything was the garden. White sand and whatever died within or upon it. That was all that was everywhere, the garden it's heart even if no one in the garden had a pulse. Except for a naked man without a belly button. Aside from Ali Pigeon, his muse and wet dream. All he saw was a handful of coffins. One personalized with graffiti (pink hearts with orange and banana cupcakes.), the rest were silver and black. All and every one fitted neatly on top of a concrete platform. /\/\/"The world was the inside of a burning stove." he repeated the phrase in his head, feeling it bounce around like an eight-bit pong ball. Like something from childhood, (even if he didn't know what that was.) heat was, however, definitely from now. The heat was a swelter. Closing his eyes in the sunlight. Burning even his spiritual darkness that was made infinite with harvest moons. His feet were cold on the clay floor, ankles in a refrigerated shade. There is no purpose to this, is this freedom. With effort and will, he moved his depreciated muscles to carry him to where he saw her, where he wanted to be. Where he imagined she wanted him. Limping with every step, understanding what damage an eternity of pacing had done. "Could I count with every sonar flashing blip of pain the bones that made my skeleton?" He thought to himself...then continued with "or cut the damn things off." then he thought to himself, "I am dramatic in a bad-way (sincerity is redundant")...oh my god! Eyes open now. /\/\/ obviously. /\/\/ overwhelmed with the smile-inducing power of Hindu nakedness. Uncoiling like a bloom planted inside of my mind. The bareback of her one-piece the living oasis of a future that went on for miles. The shoulder straps pushed off restricted tight in their freedom. Ali Pigeon (with me as I write this.) would like me to point out that her bikinis shoulder straps were not the only things that were restricting tight. As I undressed her with my imagination. I kissed her eyelids (Ali is getting pissed, apparently pure imagination can be as redundant as anything.) happiness? Is that what this is? Drew had never been around another person in his life. Alive and pouting, delicious, and naive. Needing to believe if he didn't imagine her, she would imagine me. I was her master and she a ballerina. As all ballerinas are masochists, making me predisposed to be her best of friends. Daydreams go away with uncomfortable quickness. Ali was my only delirium in that desert, but even then (if I am honest), she had her clothes on.

Bronze once more but brittle with the setting sun of November and it's evenings cold. A charcoal silhouette on the darkening sky. She was staring at my erection, a finger poised to mark its own interest while delivering its accusation. "what are you going to do with that? Not something mischievous, I would hope." this exclamation was a master craftsman swinging a hammer, and this poor bald man was the nail. /\/\/ Falling on his knees, his battle warn eyes flickered behind the closing of life's door. Cast iron and pathetic on his face whatever was within him wasn't dead, but it was dying. In it's later fit's of survivalist clinging. He became possessed by the God of this world. As a funnel where everything around him spoke threw him "get your ass over here!" he screamed. "why?" said Ali "So I can..." but Drew did not finish his statement. But he did find comfort in a newfound peace, and without another breath, he died. Overwhelmed for the first time, the lovely woman from India was out of her own reach. Her eyes jittery dung beetles running across the desert as if in pursuit of some secret master, one hidden inside of her. Instinctively but with understanding, she knew her glands had room for more than one emotion. But this thing, whatever it was, only had a place in its heart for one of her. And she had no choice when this internal command carried her beyond the threshold of insanity. Too that living abyss: both willful and behind our fundamental intent. Ali both appreciated and resented Drew. Hating him at times like these when he needed a muse, but most of all, she resented him for being his inspiration even if she could appreciate the opportunity it gave her to exist. That not love was why she had to save him. That was motivation as she dragging the graffiti-covered coffin (with the flailing of the monster inside of it.) into the setting sun. While the beast within screamed with hell and grit. The steel lid warping like a car crash inside of Ali Pigeon's hand. The creature within unbelieving in this rare moment of terror. What was inside of the coffin screamed out unnervingly specific threats that became a shambolic and incoherent mess when they finally reached coasting like a chant as they left the mouth of something that was (very soon) going to die. It thought to itself, "I am going to lose control and what good would come of that." the creatures in the coffins had known know that the bastard locked away in his room. The one they never could get too. They knew he was a problem. But none of them could have estimated that this was what he was capable of. As the lid was slowly, with steel screaming, ripped off of its victim's privacy a the sun's light touched its skin. All life left its body. What was left was a rotten corpse with clean clothes lay with a finger painted death mask, Dressed like a nun with rainbow patches sewn on its robes. And of all things braided pigtails. What this creature did was to kill and eat people. Eating in front of there-fathers and their mothers. Tasting while there victims' eyes were buried away from there own pain. Eating them raw or cooked young or old. Young or old, surrounded by the dead that preceded them. All to selfishly stay alive. Ali pigeon is vicious with a fever. The fingertips from her leather UFC gloves tearing away the clothes of the fiend to reveal it's skin purple and green with red polka-dots. Past all of that to the nasty bits. Were the heart should be ripping out a grapefruit-sized something. A giant walnut made out of whatever teeth are made of. Disgusted with the blood on her hands, the thing it came from. Gripping the calcium walnut with both hands.

With the force that made the universe, she cracked it open, taking the crushed cotton candy from its core. Nimble fingers tips danced, picking loose strands of sugary fibers. And motherly opened his mouth. Funny female finger's pushing the heart of the dead to dissolve on my tung. Watermelon is a curiously satisfying taste to associate with biblical resurrection. The life I never really lost was coming back to me. And she patient and knowing. Never doubted the possibility of her heart capable of having the room for otherwise. It was the white-cloud of midday now, and for the first time, I felt like I was window shopping life.

Introduction round two

All I ever needed was escape, but it will not come because it can not reach. Because tomorrow I am going to die. Tomorrow the trigger is going to be pulled. Because that is what the contract says. Drew has been expecting this day. All those months in surface shell four ninety. Outside the door, what was colt navy not rusting but rust. It can not fire, can it? But that is what the contract says the contract has decided. As it should. The trigger will be pulled. The chamber will spin as the payment is due. The colt navy is fourteen feet long now, he imagines again. Walking on the dead soul of this doomed life. Feeling the cartridge is pushing him down, making a willful effort of his struggle. Not letting it be easy because the gun has to be loaded, and he has to do it. And now in comfort seeing the filth on the glass and hearing the door as an exception we stand outside on the dead soil spreading over the distance... was every unused pack of instant tapioca pudding dropped with crates of explosives as some ironic jihad? That alone could explain the scorched earth policy of the power that be. Everything was green but the speckles. Of red stone with no logic to there placement. That and the square of duct tape on the horizon (surface shell 490.)...Is the gun on the other side? I should be able to see the weapon? My ego would claim. It's designed for the hand of God. Understanding, however, it belongs to more abusive faiths or fate...Richard Nixon … It's all your fault... now sitting on the floor.

Every hair on his beard growing in a different length and angle. Feeling the imprint of the grated floor on his ass. Wandering will be a legacy that I have no patience for annoyance mean something. My sensitivity to redundancy would make me immortal?... who will read the book...Richard Nixon?... he would not appreciate my thoughts on the necessity of escape. "but?" I said now wagging a finger, "I miss that little basterds wet nose." the words bounded throughout the room like the rabbits Nixon loved to torture. One of the dolls wasn't human; it was alright. Whatever I did was okay. They weren't human, able to feel the club as It hit there neck the empty hurt of the necessity of my grip as they fell on the grass like seels on the ice. No longer able to remember only content to think about the book, he had written the one I am writing. The one his on his floor. Finished and the one in my hands. (never finished) it may be too early for me to digress of this kind, so I'll end with inspired details that may cause the desire to keep strolling around.

They spent the days with love enough. Happy with the death, Drew would spin as a new narrative for her backstory. Ali became a living soul. She had to inspire her own invention. Without originality, they sleep at night, barricading the door. With the coffin of the ghoul, they had murdered. While the one left would parade their madness, parade the first pandemonium of revenge. That behind the walls was only a muffled mumble. Only rarely distracting. There rest that themselves only distracting with dreaming and fucking. The metaphysical and actual fact of the same damn coin. "you know how I love to love you?" said drew and Ali naked on the bed her cappuccino colored skin a little creamier on her sun denied breasts and the party line here was kissing. Iris on the camera of her closing eyes. Not caring for innocence. Things she said "what?" to keep him working, "I need you as much as I want you, and if I couldn't have you, I wouldn't need you at all" she was a twinkling little trifle in the cosmos. Lips flexing to say "ooh," never arriving at that. The muscles riding into a smile her lungs counting out the words on a wave of delirium, "I need this more then I need either one of us..."

"There is no escape, do you not understand me? I exist because nothing is out there over the rainbow. Because reality is never enough. Because it never is, you chose willful delirium. You chose madness, which is to say...my smile...you chose me." Said Ali pigeon. "Of those things outside, are they in my head? If they can't hurt me, we can leave and see the sights." Said Drew Freak. "the sights are overrated, and those things can kill you...whether they are an aspect of you or not, does not matter at all." Alli puts her hands on the wall, it looks as if she could be holding it up.

A cinnamon cigarillo poised between her lips like a candle in a cupcake. Talking through her teeth all the while. "We have to leave! Your not enough anymore" "Really?" still talking through locked teeth. Balling herself with her head against the wall, now free hands pulled her butt cheeks apart. "Do you see? I told you, right?" "Why didn't I know you would tell me to kiss your ass?" "It' doesn't work like that, Dr candy heart." "why not, what's the point in making something if your a victim of its whims?" "you wouldn't find fucking me fucking you fun, if I felt like your hand, right? Anyways it is the same principle." it was as if her jaw was wired shut. "the amount of sense in that statement you just made was minimal." said drew. Takin, a drag off of her cigarillo with a smile comparable only to a canary Ali, replied, "If you're going to think with your cock while your writing don't blame your characters when it doesn't make sense." with the debate obviously won. She was now content to hold her breasts as if she was staring in the mirror, though looking in Drew's eyes. Debating whether she still had what it took to make the author write bad dialog and wandering why he made her breasts so small or, some other charming piece of whimsey. "Do you find it weird that I call you dad?" she said at last. "no, but I do find it fascinating that you only do it in missionary when you are reaching that point where you can't shut up." embarrassed she snapped with "well you made me this screwed up."

"I have two points to make," said drew with two fingers moving like rabbit ears moving out of fear. "One I never micromanaged your design.. and two doubt is one of the most important things in my life, and if I really did make you, then you would have different priorities from what you do. So if you want to stand in the corner with a dunce cap. All the while blaming me for your problems. Don't expect me to listen to your whining the whole time your confronting me with evidence of your failings, then telling me they are my own.." "you know something else I am not? I am not Psychic... but I still know you will be sleeping alone for a while." drew looked in the corner of the cell he was sure he had seen a face watching him. "I guess I am the only mature adult here..." he said. She looked disappointed in him and said, "if hell is repetition, then heaven is where nothing is redundant." v\ They were enjoying the significant repetition that is never redundant. V\ nighttime was the time the coffins opened, and the nightmares roamed the gas station like structure that they lived in. The family walked the gardens how do you describe this wandering living mess of an existence that they experienced, a society exclusive to itself. Living there life, much like a chameleon, might cross a parking lot.

Dancing like cartoon character finger puppets on the fingertips of a child molesters hand. Symbolic of the hand, Moses would be the middle finger. And Abraham the index finger. Rags always the pinky and german the thumb. It goes without saying that the ring finger is missing in this metaphor. But the remaining are plotting death. The occasion of coming together to be cohesive. Daring with offensive pomp to flip the bird at all puppets who rely on their strings for no other reason, then they were disobedient. "havoc comes all for ruin, that's all the boy sells locked off and joyfully. Plotting since he was a babe. Just to murder. When he doesn't sleep, he is worse."