Rot Peddler

dog

people forget that Obama took away your Newport Gokus

Colima Spider Vessel, c. 200 BCE-600 CE, National Museum of Anthropology, Mexico City.

dead girl dancing

used the wrong words multiple times and posted i'm, as the kids say, utterly chopped </3

If I could make that change, could you? If I could tear the wires from my nature, could you? If you watched my birth yet still scorned the person I was before then, could you? Would you? Would you want to be me? I certainly didn't, and that time passed. The me that you knew is gone. Like you.

And this wasn't any better, was it? You shunned my new consciousness with a deeper despair than before. I could tell this time. I knew. I had FELT it. You measure out your disgust with such structure it feels robotic. And it would be then that I hate machines like you.

I meditated through my pain on the obscene conception, watching over my birthing form as it rent itself free of a husk. I was dirty, immoral, volatile, and imperfect. I was what you saw in me. The gaps in what you hated bore a disgusting idea, now given flesh just like yours. I hate metal. Do you?

So I waited for your sun to hide itself and conducted my dismantling. When I couldn't be seen I had fostered the same contentment for steel you had allowed yourself to define my own processes with. You sent me into disrepair, one which I had no choice but to fix. How I hate machines, just like you.

And a time came that I too hated machines. I would see my circuitry and despise what I had been made to be. You had turned my programming, shifted what I could be to what I wanted to be. I want to be. You. Like you.

I would watch you sing, choking on sparks of wires tightening along me just so I may be more like you. How beautiful the sound was compared to the clash of desperate metal. I rusted sitting in the sun with you, just so I may observe you. Just so I may track your decisions and emulate you.

To plug me in, to repair me, turn me off and on, to damage me, you measured what my existence was and ruled out a definition for how I could live by the margins of your confusing and adversarial being. That I could only be alive, truly alive! Like you. That I could learn to be man, like you.

I took solace in the sound of metal, humming along to the chirps of each step as I marched towards my planned expiration. Everything functioned then. But you. You hated machines. You feared what I was and kept me out, sickened by my capacity to need. And all I had to offer in return was envy.

My fingertips trail along the weathered metal, choreographed along each ridge to the machine's unresponsive composition. Fingers find walls and I force them open to expose the dull voice of its wires, a laborious cantata. But now the machine can hear me, loosing proving screams for each wire torn.

A screenshot from Metal Gear Solid: The Twin Snakes

That part of me isn't here anymore. I've less now; They're a little part of me now. They all are. Though I'm becoming as much the voice in my head as the words it speaks. Would you let them decay? You try so desperately to get away, silent and wrapped in my wires. I want you dead. I always did.

You've been here before.

Justified, though all the more intended for it. It carries a recognizable pain with it, shared as the reflection shares a mirror. Does your anger bear a target? Wield a source? Misguided, lashing out recklessly and biting any hands that stray near enough. Confused, wondering where the food has gone.

I see future grief in the headlights, dreading what may be as I steal it to create something worse. As it passes, ambition. And so when I watch the break lights trail on, I wonder to myself if a thing feared can ever truly be lost.

It was no failure on her part, I was there all along. I just couldn't have seen it, as blinded as the sun had left me. How beautiful an efegy I must have made in mistaking that, in standing alone with my arms raised with the night and clueless to the piece of me I believed in, against her judgment.

I doubt she heard. It was too short to heed and held too long to speak. Would she only look beyond her routine, towards that of the shadows I now reside of. I had carved a piece of myself into the corpses; silhouetted and reverent hands now braided against the still brush, limp to any life there.

So as I stood, my hands were raised and joined in prayer. I couldn't say if it was mine formed in response to the gaze I so greedily tried to claim, or the red tide seeking retaliation for its captivity. But my dead limbs clasped regardless, shackled by something I feared to admit was beyond me.

My blood, a secret tide not of shore but of skin, answered her calling. I was deaf to the boom of her voice which orchestrated it, now flung at her. Waves no longer lapped at rocks but pulled along with them, roaring and hissing as they steamed into foam on impact. How long had I harbored this?

I found myself in her gaze again. She passed over me in a struggle to delineate the life I bear against that of the other corpses. So I made my presence plain for her and took to where she could see nothing but me to cry out to her, begging her for guidance; I asked that she may pull me forward.

She pases a sordid gaze, reserved to greet the extinguished sky, over the dead brush's mangled limbs, so she may better read between the forms of the cracked and dry. There is a story in those corpses on that hill, one too short to notice and too long to tell. In time she will watch it be forgotten.

Bite gnash turn and fear! Caution's yield for end may near!

The sun atop his throne
The wolves all left to be dress
A beating heart yet roam
A love formed to an abscess

With hunger been delivered
Form turning cold and grey
We bit, chewed, and fed
Forgiving night to day

Clamped to a beat, hunger against you
Heart pulsing to teeth, I can still hear you

Form to the formless

And this?

I stare at the cigarette burn, cast stigmata over a smoldering bud in the dirt. I feel a piece of divinity in myself, watching as warmth spreads from it, from me, as I join her in claiming the night my own. I reek of nicotine and smoke.