Brainstream

Jen's doing stream of conciousness writing. I want to be like Jen. Plus, it has been a while since I've done that. I'm not expecting Prufrock, but I suppose we'll see how it ends up.

I really shouldn't listen to music while I do this.
It damns the flow somewhat. Keeps wanting me to become interject words.
Can't deny it. It's a shame though, because this song is about magic doors. They're opening all over the place, into Alice's head, and she's leaping through the air and suddenly there's ooze all over that pretty dress and she's slashing at the snails and they just
won't break.
And there's millions of them. Millions and millions, crawling all over her body, her desire, leaving their little trails of gunk over every surface within and without and you just know that you're not going to be able to scrub it all clean so you get out your flute and you play something and hope that somebody's recording.
I'm tired. I'm also worried I sound mad. I've been playing games about madness, I've been thinking about madness,
do I dare? Do I dare?
but I don't think I'm on the edge of that particular cliff just yet. It'd be nice though
to slide away
into dementia. Well, I'm smart. Maybe in a few decades.
Song finished. Interlude.

New song began. Same band. Named 'Hunter'. All I can think of is those blue and orange creatures made out of tubes, and you shoot them and they bleed all over the corrogated iron floor. The tone isn't like that at all. It's something you'd play in a boudior - spelling? - with a pale faced lady lying prone and listless on a couch nearby and I forget where I was going with this but she's drained of all her blood.
And there's a cacaphony of serenades competing for space on your tongue and you can't decide which one spews forth and tarnishes the air above her head, so you settle for none and you lick your lips and stare out over the unmoving world. Hunter. That sounds about right, doesn't it? It'd be cold. It's never hot in places like that. It's never hot here, come to think of it, not properly. I don't warm up like I should, like proper people do. Pat does. He's usually warm, and I'm straying into territory that could get graphic here so I'll make an effort to force my mind away from skin and sweat and bedroom and turn it back to things that are holy and sanctified like a woman being drained of flesh or a man having nails driven into his flesh. Hunter. That'll do nicely. Can't listen to this anymore. Interlude.

I was right. This wasn't Prufrock. And now the northern lights are shining on me and the tone is shifting yet again and dragging me with it.
And I'm flinging
fireballs
from the back seat of a moving bus
apocalypse
as the world slides into the grave
with a riotous sound
not with a whimper, but with a glorious bang,
an orgy of destruction and vainglory,
and I'm the destroyer
and the important thing is that everybody knows it
but I'll be home in time to raid.

That'll do, I think.