Post by DolorNoir on Apr 22, 2009 0:35:00 GMT -5
On dark rainy streets, in the middle of a girl’s palm is an ankh. The symbol is tattooed in black ink, and very slowly has started to fade. She picks up her umbrella and walks along the wet rubber-encased telephone line. Her name is Little Alice, she is a tight-rope-walker in the circus of beaten and broken backs. Pick up your shovels and we’ll go to watch the performance at half past the blackest noon.
The performer, she’s on her tightrope all right, but when you black out through your smoke of intoxication, through the spirals and constant reality distortions inflicted on your brain, her face is glued to the insides of your eyeballs, she is singing through your skull. Pick up your shovels; it’s time to dig a hole. It’s too late, this is your brand new funeral, and the little girl with the umbrella is calling out your dirge. Little Alice pronounces you dead.
You open your eyes and the singing stops, there she is on the tightrope again, in the pouring rain, standing on the bent telephone wire, wearing her little Mary Jane shoes. She smiles at you. She waves her umbrella. You wave your hand. You close your eyes, she’s grinning at your funeral too. You open them. The Little Alice’s umbrella has fallen apart, now it’s just a knife. Here it is! She has a new trick! She’s learned how to cut herself open! She’s playing jump rope with her own intestines! Up there on the wire!
The rain is still pounding, but you are walking away. Pull up your collar, tuck it around your face, and pull your hat down over your eyes. You don’t want to see the children of a dark world learn how to destroy themselves, mutilating their fresh bodies with glee. You walk faster, your feet are soaked. There are puddles in your shoes. Your little Mary Jane shoes.
You tilt your face to the sky and close your eyes. She’s glued to your eyelids again. She grins and waves, the ankh tattoo is bright, fresh, and dark. Her umbrella falls apart, turns into a tube of glue. Something gooey slaps you in the face, good thing you had your eyes closed, otherwise the substance would have polluted them. But now you can’t open your eyes. You realize what’s happened. Little Alice has glued them shut; now you can’t look away from her when she is ripped open. The tube of glue she holds in her hand falls apart, and what’s left is a knife. She grins. Then once again Alice saws at her body. Organs are dropping out. She looks at you and smiles again. You should be relieved- as she comes toward you, knife bared- you know there is no escape plan to worry about.
One of her kidneys falls on your shoe.
You’re just another child trapped in a nightmare. Little Alice’s nightmare. You feel her knife sawing at your skin, and this is home sweet home.
The performer, she’s on her tightrope all right, but when you black out through your smoke of intoxication, through the spirals and constant reality distortions inflicted on your brain, her face is glued to the insides of your eyeballs, she is singing through your skull. Pick up your shovels; it’s time to dig a hole. It’s too late, this is your brand new funeral, and the little girl with the umbrella is calling out your dirge. Little Alice pronounces you dead.
You open your eyes and the singing stops, there she is on the tightrope again, in the pouring rain, standing on the bent telephone wire, wearing her little Mary Jane shoes. She smiles at you. She waves her umbrella. You wave your hand. You close your eyes, she’s grinning at your funeral too. You open them. The Little Alice’s umbrella has fallen apart, now it’s just a knife. Here it is! She has a new trick! She’s learned how to cut herself open! She’s playing jump rope with her own intestines! Up there on the wire!
The rain is still pounding, but you are walking away. Pull up your collar, tuck it around your face, and pull your hat down over your eyes. You don’t want to see the children of a dark world learn how to destroy themselves, mutilating their fresh bodies with glee. You walk faster, your feet are soaked. There are puddles in your shoes. Your little Mary Jane shoes.
You tilt your face to the sky and close your eyes. She’s glued to your eyelids again. She grins and waves, the ankh tattoo is bright, fresh, and dark. Her umbrella falls apart, turns into a tube of glue. Something gooey slaps you in the face, good thing you had your eyes closed, otherwise the substance would have polluted them. But now you can’t open your eyes. You realize what’s happened. Little Alice has glued them shut; now you can’t look away from her when she is ripped open. The tube of glue she holds in her hand falls apart, and what’s left is a knife. She grins. Then once again Alice saws at her body. Organs are dropping out. She looks at you and smiles again. You should be relieved- as she comes toward you, knife bared- you know there is no escape plan to worry about.
One of her kidneys falls on your shoe.
You’re just another child trapped in a nightmare. Little Alice’s nightmare. You feel her knife sawing at your skin, and this is home sweet home.