at the edges

(bedbugs and barnacles)

bedbugs and barnacles on the side of the bed—on this side of dread. no one understands the special relationship. no one really cares. the water laps up to the edge of the bedsheets at 3:32 every morning. incorporeal jetsam gathers at the edges of the bed. once there was a shipwreck at the foot of the bed—a forlorn caravel from a dream of ancestors voracious. conquistadors from la coruña and valladolid. rapacious. once, in redress, a pile of sodden harpies and viragos on the self-same conquistadors—a deferred comeuppance of godard-ian jump cuts to the sounds of tenny’s “collage #1 (blue suede)” emanating from the bowels of the ocean sea. it was a grand old nightmare! no doubt. doubt it will ever recur. once defenestrated—some barnacles splintered. several barnacles made quick work of the bedbugs. osterized into a hummus nonpareil. a hummus to wake the dead—as if—they didn’t walk among us now.

What I’m Reading:

“When something of hers sparked and spread in the portal, it blazed away the morning and afternoon, it blazed like the new California, which we had come to accept as being always on fire.”

— Patricia Lockwood / No One Is Talking About This

About istsfor manity

i'm a truncated word-person looking for an assemblage of extracted teeth in a tent full of mosquitoes (and currently writing a novel without writing a novel word) and pulling nothing but the difficult out of the top hat while the bunny munches grass in the hallway. you might say: i’m thee asynchronous voice over in search of a film....
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