i’m not hungry

something changed within the wound . . . next, i was in a hall of whirling cylinders . . . from ooze to steady flow . . . a damned infection set in . . . the vicodin didn’t hurt, and it soon kicked in . . . late fly fragile sparkle theory ripe different voracious air chubby saudade . . . use my leatherman on the weatherman irrigate him quickly . . . i’m not a surgeon . . . sid vicious was the nurse and gibby haynes was on the anesthesia mask . . . my jaw locked . . . the slits were the surgical team . . . this was going to hurt — a lot . . . dolorous incantations from the raincoats as my nerves were severed . . . the biohazard bag was soon full of useless viscera . . . i felt pounds lighter . . . is a cold shower safe after the abscesses are spread on sourdough . . . i was completely exhausted then, half the person i’d been . . . i walked into the fog-socked tundra . . . 

What I’m Reading:

. . . the labyrinths you build for yourself have no exit . . . 

Fernanda Trías / Pink Slime