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By Alex Donaghy Week 1 Head sweat frozen by heat. Eyes peeling out of their sockets, each individually draped in a woolly blanket that itches and irritates. Shoulders have fallen off; the tendons lie bare and stretched. Throat pushes boulders down to soft shit lungs. Creased horrid underwear hovers dripping ooze on neon soft mat. Week 2 Day 1: Fit shavings spray with vibrations over my crotch. I twitch and look up. Lying down is the only option. Blades slice into my back.

I keep applying pressure regardless. The tiny sharp teeth start to slide from side to side eating through my spine.

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  • They stir my kidneys then pop them in half and shower their purple rancid juice, which cooks on the friction of the machine. This makes me smiley. I try and look aggressive with heavy shatteringly defensive machinery. She carries on looking.

    Dribble spews out of her mouth making her grey lipstick run onto her chin. She rubs it away with her hand and stains her white shirt collar in the process. Out of the van she grabs a pitch fork and rams it through my flies and down my tube. Week 3 Day 1: The musician has had his genitals rearranged. Bell end stapled to the bottom of his arsehole, with the side skin welded in place. There is a long knife gash down the middle, it has been burnt clean with a blowtorch and is soft and pretty.

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  • The girl sits on him and throws her discharge at me as I smile trapped behind cling film. They start smashing into me spreading their parts on me. Carving off their tattoos they brutally stitch them on to unseen parts of my body using thick tapestry needles and garden wire. Junk book in my bag waiting to be pawed and touched by sandwich flakes. Ripping up elms and brambles with hot sun and cool breeze.

    Underneath waiting to prick you are blue dirty syringes some whole, some snapped in half. The needles live near the graveyard where the junkies hang. Some trick death and others make slump, blue and cold on the grand crosses. Late after work a nurse will prick me to prevent disease and infection abroad. Sanded down face eats meat lung, fish and rice from a plastic bag, rancid smell seeps out. Then load with rubbish wood.

    The heat cracks our face; I can smell cooked ham on my cheek. Five metres away the glow still hurts. My partner in fire stands smiling at the flames, which glint in his glasses. I have no idea whether he is utterly content or disastrously depressed about his life. At this moment he decides to walk into the middle of the fire, I feign to rescue him and try to scream. But he gestures for me to leave him, instinctively I slosh diesel into the middle and watch him disappear. Week 4 Day 1: Slosh petrol in orange hole and skulk off to the car park.

    The futility of the task is soon realised as strong gusts blow neat piles back into their singular homes of expression. A hill of baby chairs sit covered in endless empty packets of flavourless flavour puffs. Empty paracetamol packets wrap themselves round damp never dried toothbrush. Tears and blood stain the steering wheel. First time I have ever done anything like this. Cross pedestrian quad and see her through random gaps in hoards of passing shoppers. She wears exactly what she stated she would in her email.

    I greet her, she barely greets me, she stands up not looking at me and starts as if to follow me. She looks only to be a vague resemblance to her picture, it is only her distinctive piercings that create a uniform between the two. Each step I take down the pavement I feel as though I am getting older and that she is descending into mother goo again. Are people looking at us? She is sweet and quiet and does not give much away. I will never see her again and that does not fuss me.

    My memory of you is fading; parts of my brain have been removed by time, lack of contact and vicious oversized blades. I can no more summon up the same depth of texture and physicality in my mind. Everything is viewed through a frost weakened and out of reach. Like old badly developed or badly kept film, your are stained in but can never quite be seen properly. Frustratingly I ask how it ever got this way. I miss the immediacy of powerful thought presence.

    I can barely clasp you now, features of you have rotten away in my hot badly refrigerated head. The pain is only somewhat dealt with by prospect of re discovery.

    Then scrapes them down the centre of her body underneath the skin, her hands part at her hips and take a leg each. Thick blood and split veins hang out from the rancid crust of cream coloured fat that makes up the edge of the wound. Her clothes now ripped fall of her body with ease and spread themselves on the floor. Her head twitches as she reaches into her vagina. Her wrist clenches as she forces out a half eaten mangled penis, no balls.

    Week 5 Day 1: It feels rock hard and featureless like a cube of granite. The pillow it rests on is not soft but rigid and shiny.

    Week 2 Day 1: The ledge rises and we stop climbing and cry. Are people looking at us?

    It scrapes and echoes a nasty noise that penetrates his head and makes the insides feel soft and normal again. Lifting his head higher now he smashes it down. It cracks and he feels no more. His mother is left to find him when he does not appear all morning.

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    His head caved in and crusted axe resting in white cloud duvet. Shattering pitched up electric twangs race dangerously around my head. They push their way through matter sometimes stopping to give gifts and drink tea with new excited friends. Other times they grab these friends and drag them from their family and everything they thought they knew. Once in the no mans land of clear juice and white skull borders they take out their kit. Pushing the poor boy to the floor they smash his jaw with spiked hammers.

    Run wire into his eyes.

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    Clean his arsehole and genitals with non-flinching wire brushes and acid. After many hours letting him writhe around they do not answer his screams with the cold barrel of a gun to the back of head. But instead clothe him and clean his wounds and place him back where they found him, no one is any the wiser. Shivering in a cold white bed, the bleak thick wind runs off the bare tree fronds and through the slit in the window, channelling right towards my chest.

    I blow hard on my nose the tissue fills with hot liquid blood as well as small dark brown almost purple clots.

    The tissue perishes due to the over load of liquid. Falling limp at the sides it deposits a stain on my pyjamas. I cast it to rest on top of my phone to be dealt with later. Turning to the man next to me I smile with teeth, then go under the sheets to make him female ejaculate.

    In his pubic triangle I have earlier in expectation of this activity cornered a bit of skin with a rubber band. It is now a blue pellet and will act as the clit. Smacking that fast with my tongue I slam my fingers hard into the soft jelly skin between his balls and his arsehole. After half an hour nothing has happened, I give up, apologise profusley and vow to try again tomorrow. Sorry to sound like your mother but did you think about what your wearing?

    Clean up or die. She smiles sickly AGA dripping off her breath. The interview goes great, they seem to like me.

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  • Comment

    Gom

    at 21:11

    I am sorry, it at all does not approach me.

    Akidal

    at 15:23

    All about one and so it is infinite

    Leave a Comment