two days of cries. different ones. screams of pain and joy. tearing sounds, sounding tears. thrusts, ironically erotic, pathetically dramatic.
1.
throat blown, irritating ideals rip through his flesh. spasms. cries. he rips the air, grasping at things as his lungs and heart puke out his rage. But no one knows where it begins or ends. we are all caught in rapids, begging for respite. from his might. from his plight. fight. fight. we are snorkelers caught in a tsunami of frustration, on a bedrock of gadgets.
as tsunamis do, he will quiet down. rest, it’s soothing and beautiful, torturing also to remember him convulsing two minutes ago. such pain. such maddening pain. until his breathing picks up, his mandibule slaloms, the avalanche is upon us. break, let me break something! FUCK! he cries FUUUUUUUUUUUCK!.
I never saw toys as weapons. I never saw shelves, wheels, tables, vacuum cleaners, as projectiles, then again I had never seen socks dipped in blood either.
It was a night of anger, transformed into terror. He emotional gag reflex had been punched into action, his dam blown, damn blown.
as time went by, particles of fear and anger accumulated the night sky seemed blurrier, our reflexes less willing, our responses less forgiving. the terror had subverted the anger, the outburst turned to “inburst”. what seemed to once be letting go became letting in, letting around, letting into, letting through, caged.
2.
oh my god
she too screamed, but of (forced?) joy. i hadn’t heard (from) her in months. and i wasn’t meant to. the joy was for a friend. another one. the cry crashed into the silence. as a wall might onto a room of jello, unthreatening, “but still.” still. still in silence, still in my silence. so far from the quakes of the previous day. and yet in those cries came similar struggles, thrusts, ironically erotic, pathetically dramatic.
but beautifully chilling none the less. both of them.
En chaussettes 