I filed my hand against my scruff, contemplating the weepy morning. Beside me, a notebook scratched by pen, filled with luxurious poems. There was no question that I needed a shower, but I couldn't bring myself to have one. I got up at about 4pm, although I didn't know that until I checked the clock downstairs. Moments before, I was just laying in my bed, my whole body racked by a pendulous desire to write, and give it up. My eyes just moved up and down the ceiling, searching the blankness to find a modicum of inspiration, just to piece together another poem, just to relieve the ache of not having written one. I stared at the ceiling for so long, that the little plaster spikes began to flow into weird shapes. But the more I waited, the more the shadows of the afternoon, or dawn, made me tug my sheets in a sort dreary ambivalence. I wouldn't get up, had I known the time.
What was going on with the world? Sense frayed. Faux naif politicians ejecting congressmen with libel, armed with an artificial moral crusade, belying the actual political disharmony in an internecine state.
It was an image game. Because image is easy to discredit. An easy excuse. Naturally, a lot of emphasis is placed on that.
I've fallen into a sort of intellectual coma. Unable to brave the wilderness of political affairs, threatened by spuming apologists as I directed my insight towards documented, but uncharted land.
Bagels W. McPhag has slowly been pacing downwards, like the droplets on wet cavern walls coursing over ruts. Listening to myself drip... the refreshing plop of things just being let go.
This reporter has sought refuge in a bedroom asylum, drunk from poetry, committing poetic suicide. Rolling up my sleeves, so my cuffs don't wipe away the ink, but smudging it with my palm from time to time. Chastising myself as I scribbled down words, performing a self-exorcism in just sentences, or sometimes paragraphs.
But my intuition never failed me. I parted the blinds, overlooking a mountain of uncleaned dishes, eyes burning in a glaring ray of sunlight. As my vision settled, I looked over the bustling swarm of people, faces melded into the crowd, spirits laded by workload.
In my robe, in my slippers, in my scruff, my face furrowing hit by the brightness, I'd forgotten that as I shambled across the sidewalk, that I did not don any pants. How foolish.
I bursted through the doors of my old school, my smell perverted by the stale aroma wafted by the tiring cream walls. That smell.... like the reignited burn of lipstick on a shaven cheek. In the entrance, big meat hook dug through children, floating away on them into some depository.
"Weeeeee!" One kid said, as he flew by.
I flung the door open, propelling myself through the opening. Row after row, kids slouched over in their desks, hooked up to IV looking units, leaking numerals into them, amounting in the sum of someone, their soft breaths emptied by their comatose stare.
And I took a seat, in my old desk. The teacher, being delectable, developed my massive hard-on. Naturally. This was a little embarrassing as I had no pants on.
The teacher sat in a wooden chair up front, unzipping her skin with a surgical knife, taking out one organ, after another, presenting little known facts about them. I could only assume that this was a biology class.
The cloying animation in her eyes waned, as waves of blood swept up particles on the floor. She began to nod off, becoming more apparent that her body was grew detached from her pith. She gradually unfolded, completely unconscious.
All around me, with scissors and precision blades, they cropped out bits of text from literature, combining them into little messages. The teachers head fell forward, her clothes squishing, dying with blood. They glued these little strips of text over their eyes, reading little morals removed from works by humble authors. When they conversed, their entire script was merely a cut-up of words from books. No word was actually their own. It was like they were actors, involuntarily rehearsing their lines.
I looked up at the teacher. She broke into consciousness, barely moving, but beckoning me over with her skittering fingers.
"H-h-h-help..." She asked.
I had to think on my feet. I milked her arm, feeling for a vein. Sure enough, it pressed against her skin. I yanked an IV cord from some stupid kid, little digits spat onto the ground, and watering her arm as I jammed it in. She sparked to life, in convulsions. Her pupils roiled, finally vanishing, relinquishing to little "3's" that appeared instead.
Her breath reeked of the sterility of alcohol.
"Get me out of here..." She whispered, lunging herself to my ear.
Strangely, I still had a massive hard-on, making this slightly awkward as I carried her out of the building. Still with no pants.
As we stumbled out of the classroom, we were immediately acknowledged by school officials, who hollered in response to my errors.
"What are you doing? She's supposed to die, do you know how hard it is to keep a constant flow of teachers?" They remarked, loading their staplers. I turned around, sprouting my massive boner in plain sight.
"Oh god." They said, completely deterred.
Escaping was rather easy.
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