THE UTOPIAN SYRINGE
Silas met with Erasmus
in a naked building surrounded by Anglo-Saxons swimming in the ensuing cake
mixture. Silas didn’t recall his kleptomania, didn’t resolve it like he did the
mascara addiction. Erasmus sought him out for this reason specifically: you
never know when a neglected freshman will turn into a pilot of his own high
energy refreshment. He brought Silas in to find the Utopian Syringe, the freaky
juice that turns cowards into workaday ballpark figures of the highest order.
Erasmus had a sister who impaled her own husband on the resulting earth spikes,
her mind had become a jigsaw of many rattled headaches. Silas knew exactly
where the leads were buried and who cleared the scene for a totem to be properly
and unabashedly installed. His mind staggered and, in its staggering, continues
to stagger to this day. Each of them had a rightful place, a location to
disassemble the last design. To find the formula, he just needed to dribble and
sniff.
THE CARTESIAN RUMBA
Shuffle
down! Shuffle down! Tumble to the Cartesian Rumba, the returned fatherhood of philosophy
in subjective dance. Parties would be a fine thing if only the rhetoric wasn’t
so exhausting, if only the discography would patent itself ahead of the
proceedings. But then the music would have no house to arrange itself with
deadly worth. Silas departs from the venue with little bits of evidence in his
pockets. The internal revenue of the land swells in between his fingers,
restraining his joints with a back-handed compliment. But no syringe. Alas no
Utopian Syringe. Let’s be heading out for the off, Silas pronounced. It pays to
be a dirty human being, wrinkling the earth a million miles away. He trips past
the dance fleet and groans. The original idea is lost to this place, it’s been
cavorted by Western ideals. Silas heads off to a fairer fight.
THE DESERTERS OF THE SLIME
Silas
wipes his feet and acts strident in the face of the Murk Maidens. Their grease
conceals all their soft spots to fire upon. He doesn’t remove the rifle from
his innards, instead he survives. He doesn’t breathe in the noxious fellows and
in doing so survives to be killed another day. Silas knows that his death will
be at the tip of a bladed instrument, glistening like a medical contraption.
The Murk Maidens continue to flee their war.
THE PLOP-PLOP-PLOPPING
Silas
arrives at the castle of a thrifty labeller and demands to see the Utopian
Syringe. The old git with the tight purse strings pulls out a hammock and tries
to choke our hero with it but Silas chucks him down onto the cold hard slabs
that line the courtyard. He twists the old man’s pointing end and waits for the
plop-plop-plopping. It misses a beat but it’s clear enough. The thrifty
labeller throws his shattered pointed end back towards the barracks. Silas
discovers the syringe behind a crossbow collection and beckons Erasmus from his mean shady corner. They inject each other.
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