Friday, April 18, 2014

Twelve Rounds with the Citalopram Kid

No story. The mind reaches out but instantly snaps back, dragged back into its skull-cell. Leaping frogs bounce wetly off the glass. My head stuffed in a pillowcase knotted shut beaten with rubber mallets. I feel like I am throwing punches, lashing out wildly, but when they play back the footage I see that I am just standing there, swaying slightly with a blank look on my face rather than rage. I am about as fierce as a deflated basketball, my passion burning as hot as a head of lettuce. The soles of my bare feet are sticky as if the skin’s been flayed from them. There are slivers of broken glass caught between my teeth, lacerating my gums, but I don’t feel them. Something runs down my face, dripping from my chin; I go to wipe it off but keep missing. My cock has dropped off and every time I bend over to pick it up I get woozy so eventually I just let it lie there in the dust. A thousand gnat wings sprout from my shoulder blades and shiver there soundlessly. There’s no story. My attention doesn’t even snap back anymore but lies limply on the ground. I reel it in and wrap it around my head like a turban, then count the bells until it’s time to hit the floor.

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