Sunday, January 08, 2006

here's hoping a certain mr. Dennis Cooper will consider my writing worthy of his upcoming anthology;


a short piece by Nick Cacioppo

The tea pot began billowing steam, softly. I snapped two of her ten digits at their roots; one completely forward and the other completely back, until the little hooks of bone cracked the skin. She fell half-way to the floor, knees crashed to the tile, wrapping the fingers of her other hand around the wrist of its mutilated twin. The bubbles and pops of the boiling water made the pot whistle-to-scream.

She curled up, back to the black stove-door, knees now up and hidden in the brittle, almost paper-like fabric of her black dress, hysterically inhaling and exhaling, the snot lumping in the back of her nose, trickling down to her throat, baptizing her cries with the thick milk of phlegm. I put the olive-green oven-mit over my right hand and picked up the tea pot, the glass of its lid completely fogged, beads of condensation dripping long its metal rim.

Her hair is parted down the middle. Dry. Color of hay. I took of the lid and dumped the boiling water where her hair parted, a baritone yet feminine growl coming out of her mouth. There is some fight in you left.” I told her as she made a fetus of herself, praying the atmosphere would sheath over her person as some sort of a faux-uterus......

.....The shaving cream gathers in white clumps in the thistles of hair below my chin and cheeks, hairs that amass into a follicle chin-strap, unable to connect to the coarse moustache that has been needle-scraping against the pig-fat upper lip, their near constant irritation making the pink swollen, darker, and hard, oozing venom in every pout. Steam arises from the pool of water, pulverized into a toy typhoon by the faucet, spurting out muddy chunks of rust that create liver-spot stars on the yellow porcelain. My face looks inked, like a pen streaked black rain over bland marble, using artificial details to mask the uneventfulness of my face. The reflection and the flesh collide as each of our spit splatters on the mirror, the light green of the mucus like the chalk outline of an insect homicide.

My face stretches in the reflective portions of the mucus that drip down the mirror like heated cheese, liquified into a near white, robbing itself of the vivid dairy that defined it. The skin looks to be clumsily slipping from my skull, the bags around my eyes melting like unfinished rorschachs on vertical pages. The skeleton looks back, the once indifferent eyes now wide as grappling hooks, their metallic spider-legs twitching desperately for concrete to impale.

The jaw opens to unleash a slow olive-drab flame, billowing out more like smoke than fire. It comes through the growing cracks in the mirror before quickly vanishing, the skinless nightmare of a blood-thick hallucination now just vapor and memory. The snot-target thins before me as the bog of sink water pushes the last of its dancing gas upwards, its humidity eliminating the shotgun-blast-phlegm’s brief density. The chrome button resting in the far-up of the sink’s deeper end is pushed up, swallowing the corroded metal flakes and pale-oil slick of shaving foam that granted the water the will to congeal into something sick and rich. The lead pipes rumble the paneled walls with orchestral sucking noises, the drain of the sink vocalizing their wind and brass with a brief gurgled belch that caps off their tainted symphony.

Thick diseased vines of sewage-growth followed me on my way back to the bedroom, giving my shadow the illusion of tendrils, as if its host was part-octopus. The vines beat me to the door, crawling on the surface of the wood, connecting like fingers sliding into the open spaces of each hand. The door wasn’t shut all the way, and the mere weight of my shadow was enough to push the door all the way open. The bed is anticipating my return to its womb-comforting cottons, culling my phantom nerves like amputated limbs that twitch with the pains of their former host’s mutilation. The plaid comforter, the protective fabric skin of blanket, crumbled and starched sporadically from the protein of last night’s masturbation, ejaculate compacting strands of fabric into gelled spikes.

A naked woman is lying on her side, back to me. Ghost-white cells compose the pale organ, shrink-wrapping the skeleton in soul-cold baggage. Her hair goes straight down before the ends split and feather just above her shoulders. Grease-black-ice, like snow aged by months and road. Droplets of sweat sputter down the crease in her back, arrowing to asshole, where the moisture collected coated her sphincter with an appetizing glaze.

I climb into the bed. I rest my semi-hard cock in crack of her ass, facing down. She slowly shakes and grinds her ass-cheeks into my cock, massaging it on both sides. The sweats that collected in and around her ass lubricate my cock, allowing it to slip into her ass with ease. The cavity chokes with delicacy, but with enough strength to suck my skin clean off. I could swear I heard faint tears, as if the skin of my back was ripping in half. With every intake/extake thrust, I could feel the split becoming a divide, exposing red meats whose slime freeze in the open air.

I flip her to her stomach and start thrusting back, as if a vacuum attachment was throwing up garbage it was never meant to swallow. She’s up on her knees, pushing me back with her waist, making her ass ripple with waves. I grab her arms and pull them behind her, pressing her wrists close to each other just above the small of her back. I finally her guts are now packed with fluids vomited from infected veined sacks.

I go soft inside of her, falling right out of the cavity. I turn her over to her front. Her face looked like it had been streaked with white-out and then xeroxed. Long black hairs spring out sporadically from her breasts, as if spiders were inching their way out of her chest cavity through pinholes in the skin. Her stomach was toned, details outlined with faint hairs that made it look like the belly of a humanoid-wolf. A set of teeth glowered from her vagina, its lips pulled back, fastened open by hooked wires that coil around each other starting just above her belly button, running up her lycanthropic-stomach and through her cleavage, splitting a few inches below her throat and going around into the nape of her neck, where the cords are pulled inside of her by tiny rodents. The abdominal rats take them to her vaginal cavity, where its jaw is wired shut.

I lean over to kiss her and I am sucked in, tongue first, by the wormhole of her face, where I will be dissolved in the stomach acids that broke down the fabric of any universe she had ingested before me.


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