All was mist and water lapping, and Job dreamt, for what else was there to do? And so Job dreamt of the absence of the beautiful women, and these words rang in his dreaming and dream-lobed ears; Can I vomit sorrow into my own face. Can I sodomize my self with loss so that my inner sex demon gland is tickled into an orgasm of self-loathing. Can I be alone forever, and avoid all tearing but my own. Only my own crooked fingers pulling at my flat and insubstantial guts of nothing but pain and the abstract horror of solitude. Can I please. Can I eat my hair, chewing the bitter cud of any physical beauty I might have had, and swallowing compressing it into the thick sick pill of my decaying mortality. This is me running away screaming, each toe as it hits the ground gouging out at the gut of my heart. Can I please. Pretty Please. Can I split all my teeth in two, and hide in between them. Can I bite off the tip of each finger, and then type out the word of god with my bloody stumps. And then the lizards will crawl out my mouth and spread lies about truth, and the eggs of beetles will hatch in my eyes, envisioning me. This is how it happens. I am Arubis, or Arubis eats his way out of me, pulling and peeling back my skin to reveal the deep and infinite emptiness. And all death pours out like hot blood lava, killing in its seething snake life, liquid despair. And the stomach hardens into dead coal, as the mouth gasps and nothingness weaves its way out like an empty worm, ribbing the lips as they peel back blackened. Will it please. Then a concrete pavement of rough graveled nothingness sits flat and lumped in my bowels. Please. And now there is a cold and deep knife in me, simply waiting to be pulled out, and to drag my last warm life with it to writhe and expire on the unfeeling ground. And now there is a herd of stampeding bland suffering which shivers my body all too inconsequentially. Nothing begets nothing which begets my mind and body. And it tightens its grip around me, this constrictor is slow and patient, saving me for a famished winter far ahead in time, I will never know. And squeezing, it renders me mute, and coats my tongue in bile, painting it with the remnants of the body’s sickness hoard. But you see, the vomit never came out, but stayed in my belly and rots there instead. And I will be alone from it today. I will be alone for it today.
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