An Evening’s Suture Ben Norton I tried to open them. and my Lips were sutured. Trisyllabic utterances, soft words floating gracefully in an air of playful spring, rising gently amidst the bubbles of a warm, crescent sun (cresce! cresce!), growing ever steadily, nascent in a world of dire tribulation—hardships, depression, disaster… “Put it out of its misery. Spare it from the pain; that inevitable, ineffable, dolor.” And the bubbles *pop* pleasantly on the tip of a furcated tongue. while my Lips were sutured. The frowzy haughtiness in the night, the obsequious glances, the wholly unnecessary strings of misfortune…(pizzicato, arco!, p-i-zzzzz-i-ca-tō, spicatto…AR-CO!) NoW!)—tenuous threads of an unpleasant demise: a surreptitious punch (¡Pugna! ¡Hay una pugna!...“Rā-jing Buuullll!”...) into the infamous gut of guilt. Gluttony. and my Lips were sutured. And a stupendous cre-scen-do enveloped the globe, the miniscule pellet of Her interminable, fascist desire… Lies propagated, bred likes flies; puerile pigs, succinic, sordid, swine, populate the pitiful planet. Mine. And fraudulence. Ours. when my Lips were sutured. Succor! Succor! I need! We… And them… they. There they were. Whetstones of ivory. Sharpening their teeth… on those of long-lost kin. Solidifying stories—blasphemous, ridiculous tales. Myths; calcifying, inculcation… of madness, of chaos, of dearth, of destruction. That most prominent word. The most popular word. Their favorite. And that word resonated out, determined, assiduous, on a perpetual quest towards monotony and conformity. That insignificant little sound; just exactly that: a nightmare—circadian rhythms, blithe, dancing to lighthearted gigues of guised certitude, repressed reality. Unforgiving Fact. And, while everyone knows there are no nymphets in polar regions, not everyone knows…there are no nymphets… (And as for polar regions?… A simple myth, at the most.) Et labiae meus illi consupserunt. …
(sic)