Blepharospasm

Blepharospasm

A Chapter by TheHangedMan(XII)
"

Tripping on LSD and dark erotica fill the pages of Blepharospasm.

"
"Today, a young man on acid realized that all matter is merely energy condensed to a slow vibration �" that we are all one consciousness experiencing itself subjectively. There's no such thing as death, life is only a dream, and we're the imagination of ourselves. Here's Tom with the weather." 
Bill Hicks 



((Therapy Session)) 
The color: reddish yellow 

I conduct the poles and I move the limbs. I fuse the glared strings at me. I reveal the neck to make room for the strings that fluttering, fluttering before my eyes and inside my ears, and I press on those glared strings at me. They are wide enough for the neck and easy to press…and liquid, stretchy like my flesh, I can fusing them, and stay glaring at them. I can endure, and cocainize until they fuse on my temples, and I make no sound, like the plastic hole, which is on the bed…I dive into it, and I show the dimness in which, I scatter that dimness with my thin fingers. I reveal it sometimes to fill the scene, and to bring intimacy, and safety. I resent its effect and extinguish the rising smoke, how it is a plastic hole with black rims stained the scene, and brought a reprimand and slaps. I drown my head with those strings that are tightening around my temples, pressing. And I press, delight, and wrap myself with them, I put the things around those strings to get increase with them, and I am there, silent, just I delight and watch the cracking, the pressing, and the ecstasy that is coming after. How they are drawing near me, and waking my eyes, my silent eyes in the joy of the pressing, joy of the choking and disintegrating. The breath inside the sound twitching, surrounding it those silent objects, shouting to my yellow eyes and stimulating my fingers to touch those objects where sensing my thin fingers, writhing them. And the breath that is inside the sound increasing up, brings a scissors and a dark fiction…as if it is near to devour my eyes. It becomes on the point of devouring the silent objects, where the eyes are only the source of the sound, writhing with the thin fingers that touch the lips, gnawing those scissors, penetrating the melting that is occurring around my temples’ poles, and beckoning to me for not move. But my eyes are what I see, rolled back and watching the fusion…twitching with each spark. The scissors are drifting around the limbs sensing my thin fingers that are touching my turbid cheeks, hollowed and capa-ble and full of liquid of mouldering shining papers shading my eyes, uniting with each kiss and the poles still working, still fusing right above the agitated eyes that are unable to fold, only to con-tact with the cold thin fingers. I startle. I make a sound reaches those objects, and stimulates them. The objects shrink into themselves and make an echo of a tinkle with a smell. I show my teeth, beckoning to them my listening and anxiety of my fusion. Like a cold flesh pasted with paper-visions I sense my body, how it is lying and listening by a female to that circling, to that fusion, to that weakness and pining to paste with shadows that become rosy inside the grooves of the cheeks…and I rub, to dive more and listen deeper. Like sheets and pencils stain my circumvention, and beckon to cut out the veins now. I surround with those objects like an echo, and those objects are cracked and echoing, look like me, and return the echo that is coming out of me, the echo of their silence looks like me, gloomy like the shadows that are around us. They creep into and I creep into each other’s echo, and sparks of the fusion light us…I empty a fine voice in those objects that start moving, moving around me. They move, stop, move, stop, move then stop, with each pass-ing shadow. They stop and wait for it to cross, and then they move after the shadow crosses. The heads of those objects move then back, move then back and draw echoes of my voices. Then they move…coil around me, and I wait for the dissolution, I wait for the poles fusion, and the voices and the echoes interfere, and the shadows watch, I touch with my cold thin fin-gers the objects of those shadows, sarcoid, cold like my fingers…, and concave, hold all The colors that are in my pencil case. And my brain, the fusion reaches to my brain, I feel it; I feel its crawling, I feel the freezing of its tarnishes above my brain, I feel the tickling of its crawling and creeping into my cerebrum with a sulfuric smell, I reduce my body with it. And my gasp becomes like something of sob and makes a grab for those objects where the resonant echo is still coming out of them, like a sprin-kle of broken glasses sting the sides of my ear. I make no sound. I listen to that strange crawling, bloody, stained with sheets and pencils I pull the strings now, I draw the strings more toward my temples…and the shadows bleed, flutter and jerk out of my cheeks, spill colors, and I’ve become quasi-drowned inside that plastic hole. I show my teeth more to those objects, beckoning to them my attention, my anxiety, and my gloominess for their echoes. Those objects start mouldering, I detach my hands from my temples’ poles, I open my mouth and those objects moulder before me, with cold. And the echo comes out from them cracked, with a sleek smell, and also strong…we draw to each other, we fuse together with a sharp sound, dark, we listen to the sound of the melting and fusion…we float, fade, lie like burning pencils, and we keep inside the echo of our voice, that is dark. 


© 2011 TheHangedMan(XII)


My Review

Would you like to review this Chapter?
Login | Register




Request Read Request
Add to Library My Library
Subscribe Subscribe


Stats

157 Views
Added on December 17, 2011
Last Updated on December 17, 2011


Author

TheHangedMan(XII)
TheHangedMan(XII)

Reykjavik, Iceland



About
Sacrifice. Letting go. Surrendering. Passivity. Suspension. Acceptance. Renunciation. Patience. New point of view. Contemplation. Inner harmony. Conformism. Non-action. Waiting. Giving up. more..

Writing