You’re translucent, you spread all over me just like the image in a mirror, as a plastic sandwich wrapper with its dragon-fly wings folded and snowflakes encrusted in your body. Within you I can listen to the fingernails of the other part of my body. A part endowed with two ears, jacket and winamp playlists wrapped around its ankles. Once every five minutes your soap-bubble takes each and every one of my fingers and glues them to the heart of the otherside-being, whose spotted surface and entangling lines I pull heartily so that, in the end, it seats itself obeying under my soles, all bathed and sparkling clean by you, my limb-membrane. I like to butter you up trees and along bridges so that you could shine-sun, so as not to suffocate his nostrils while he’s staring through or my own cotton candy strewn fingerprints. Do you have the same hues on his side? You mould yourself perfectly on our lips and pour down our arteries at a speed equaled only by the death of a drosophilae insect. We lick your circles and extract with our clutching tongues the headphone corks where fragments of clouds etch themselves hurriedly on every beat of the music of our chins dressed in your double-breasted jacket which smoothes every single protuberance or hole just like the antiseptic coating of a dentist’s hands.
You won’t break, will you? Anyway the sky regarded through your spectacles smelling of beeswax and cinnamon belongs to us right here in our own picnic spot, above the antennas among which you could hear the screams of our voices coming from the depths of the metropole. You’re a well-behaved blanket, flowering fairy hands using my hairpins, painted on cd pieces that reflect the city lights. We, me and the other momentary myself, build your tunnels and cracks crayoned with suns stuck within, between your stomach and coccyx, so as not to forget our way to each other’s warmth. We add labels, cracked jars, desk mate’s lenses, hand-contorted notes, cigarette pack wrappers, tin boxes, stickers stolen from subway doors, dripping milk, sister hooks, vodka bottle corks, stars, tomatoes, snow and train wagons. We adorn you with whatever we find in each and every home we inhabited and intend to make you our expedition trophy glass display. Everyday we wipe you gracefully employing our tongues and teeth, with lined sheets of paper and shreds of dead skin, to the point where we can sketch maps contouring our shoulders by tracing lines connecting each other’s beauty marks. You, our membrane-wall, move in time with our own clavicles inevitably collaged in the falling rain and you plaster yourself, dental gypsum, the yet uninvented two-handed glove applied to our bodies sculpted in the sentiment of being caught in each hair sprouting from every organism present. You fall like a manically arranged curtain carefully creased by usherettes at a Broadway theatre; you fill yourself up with the scents of popcorn and glass beads with a zipper.
We smile and hang on to each other like two peas in a pod,clinging to your handles. We won’t fall, will we? Well, we can’t fall because we’re sitting, our feet rudely teetering, on the edge of your crescent hatchet as if it were a beanbag chair. Pic, pic, pic, you drain the humours from my eye and let them flow into his and vice versa until we burn our eyes with heaven and flood the yellow within the retina with fireflies and sage franciscan lyrics on one hand and naumian lyrics on the other. I am sharpening my nose on your emery wheel taking care to sand paper any trace of the past out of my brain, complexes or absolutes, obsessions or dead cells. You boil it under a moderate fire and ingurgitate it gradually by sniffing or gulping it down your intestines. I take my pair of scissors and turn you into a bunch of cut-out girls that are desperately holding hands because I am bored with trying to stand on one leg a cleaning rag in my hand, to try and see drops of ringlets, iris-blue, or a toe. The ringlet person notches off with his own pair of scissors the mirror-house inside my mind and sends me notes scribbled in patient black letters smelling like the paint on your back, I become well-behaved and stick them to my ankles so that I could climb on top of them.
They harden and pour themselves around my body just like a glass suit blown with a straw by the glass-craftsmen. I rise tall on the summits of the glass-brick suit and...
The bear went over the mountain, the bear went over the mountain, the bear went over the mountain, to see what he could see...
But I can’t see anything, just copies of the same image I could guess earlier from my side. An army of otherside myselves. The otherside myselves extend the lenses of cameras, tell stories and then disintegrate, one by one, until each and every one of his (the otherside myselve’s) shivers grow to watch me clinging tight to each other, wrapped like your inner flowers, and you (having already turned into an hourglass) wreath, elfelant skin and sour stone, paste up web-footed goose legs and leaf veins over every fragment of broken-myself until you start looking like the eye of a contorting bathroom-window where no words can go through. I try to hurl into the playful fuzziness of the newfound wall cigarettes, toothpicks and harsh, abrasive words, but the shivers can’t hear and attend to inflaming a dialogue between my cubist image whose kidneys and neck are placed just like a sheath of sorts over the leg bones and whose thenars (soles) timidly peer from the crown of the head. The shivers explain the evolution of a friendship between a big loud mouth and a group of puppets with smaller mouths. The result of this, heard through the ears stuffed in the roof of the mouth, modulated by the shrill voices of the shivers, is loneliness. “It’s all your fault, image, that’s why you’re alone. You talk too much and to no point at all.” The image is relatively deaf though, and these words become(in her own ear) “I still love you with every single shiver-cell that I have left, but can’t show it because of various reasons among which those ruptures that I etch my brain on are included.”
The image smiles a squarehead smile stamped with butterfly wings in the middle of its pupils and behind the darkness-glasses and the printer-head walking stick she (the female image) sees the wrinkles, nerves and nervate leaves just like an internet cookie, result of the overload of the wall with all the happy junk blown in it. She unsheathes her fingernails and scratches you (the wall) until she takes out every hair grown under your skin that turns opaquer with every passing minute and shiverish whisper. More and more limbs and predator claws, reeds that sprout from the rear of the shivers await the weeding out of my fingernails cold to the marrow. The shivers gather in a nook and embody whitish unallayed lips (the otherside being’s) protesting ceaselessly against the hardened reeds. My cheeks red smile but your threads unstring themselves ball by ball sprinkled with mean laughter and puce spittle droplets flavoured with grime and smut. Through the advancing thicket of the transforming membrane your songs ingress here and there together with sentences on the stock of being printed, the thunder clap of trains and football game choreography, I know you’re there and I am not scared for now. I hit my head against the wall continually, but the wall does not gum-stretch anymore, the hyaloid state being overrated, unnerved grazing my forehead, thorn crowning, thick-lipped flowers bloom along my temples. Tick-tock, tick-tock, poc-pac, poc-pac. My eyes remain suspended atop a claw, wink oftentimes in an alert manner so as to intercept any dream crumb, after considerable effort and tears that pickle the twig fence that you’re encrusted in, they notice a shred fallen from a pink tutu, an eyebrow verse, lint from your navel, a drop of perspiration still burning and a tag harrowed on a leaf.
Resorting to my knuckles, I creep along the roof, I cover myself in books, in your sounds, your staccato breath and your aftershave and bitter almond scent, I pluck up my intestines, I shave my head and paint the bald-patch and keep the phone cord under my tongue until it melts and intonates an infernal song, nut-cracking and flame-eating belonging to the otherside being’s shiver-built body just like a surrealist puzzle that chants war-like: “Nu. That’s the problem. No. No, don’t cry...We’ve still the wall left. We’ll write to each other. We’re chasm brothers. You don’t have to forget my name. We’re also left with all we built. Why are you crying?” My image flows into you, fluvial, flood, drowns, swims, catches nostril fish and swallows words, smouldering all the well-behaved dreams, lies face up on the blackening wall more and more stuffed with resins and mucous membranes, it shatters into clean ribbons that it wallow through burnt oils and sad pictures. My image shuts up until its synapses turn upside down and my soul ends up in the soles. It tramples on it, she hammers out blains, beautiful lies, reasons knitted out of chlorine acid wool. The wall bruises her and he too shuts up, black and immobile. Immutable. The image stretches on the floor and falls asleep under the sting of a tsetse fly on the run from the funereal black of the wall. “Earth carpets me, flowers spring from my irises, my eyelids mingle with dew-drops and turn off the lights, my hands stretch and germinate becoming the fruit of the earth, within my navel you can hear the booms and snorts of Vulcan’s horses, I plantify myself. I linger!”
She wakes up with a bittersweet taste in her mouth and winged. She cries until she fills all the containers around her, she imagines waves and lather out of the tears, she wreaths fishing nets and polishes the blankness of the wall, takes a walk around it wearing roman sandals made out of the wickers of willows that covered her breasts and her green mirror-wrought hat that makes her sunny. She discovers the bell jar that she had slept under with the amazement that a freshly snow-kissed fir tree displays and she is the one building snow angels down his lap. Conscientious as she had never been before she makes New Year’s Resolutions and declares a national holiday of the bell jar, she produces a hammer from under one of her sleeves and busts the old year with a molasses-buzz. She builds lists and takes to making inventories of the surrounding objects.
She concocts shelves and adds fortifications to the Great Wall: she takes the beer bottle necks dating back when the membrane was still there (b.l.c. =before the loss of the circlet) and rears them one above the other with the ring tops welded together at a powerful and spherical fire, in every bottle placing a fragment of the rays belonging to the elastic membrane specifying: “of literary value. Museolitical capitalisation. There shall be absolutely no fusion right” on every single verse-note. Messages in bottles have to be corked up so that the spell won’t escape and poison the total forgetfulness, so she takes old skin coats and stuffs them ring-shaped, sealing the bottle-necks that cover now every square inch of her bell jar and seem to rain down on her brain-cover with roots that look upwards.
She imbibes the corks with winamp music, asks herself tauntingly the question: “how does it make you feel?", asks the memory crumb this interminable question, expects answers. The answers crowd her head with the speed and manic manner of the beer-bubbles and close her eyes until she starts hitting the walls with every single last vertebrae left in her spine, until she shatters in so many pieces that the milky way and its lights seem like a small pile of strewn leaves on a silken sheet in comparison. More-than-the-milky-way sings now: “another day, just believe, another day just breathe” and suffers a cardiac arrest. The cardiac arrest does not last longer than my sister’s count up to 100 and more-than-the-milky-way drains through its own brain ditches reforming itself, adding ice-cream tins and mauve mumblings of the body, changing form and length of facial hair, imagining butterflies with lighter hats and growing mushrooms with more dots. All those she builds, brick-by-brick, word- for-word, she looks around at the glass shutters, vinyls, circlets and memories and sees garlands made out of suns, vocal chords and maple leaves. Her scream for the one beyond the bell-jar has not disappeared nor will it ever disappear but she has to refine somehow the walloid ejections so she grabs a mandrel made out of potato peelings and plunges it deep in the unnoticed (until now) direction (tuber), in the soil in which she had already caught coloured roots and bloomed sepia flowers, bones and bastes of the air. The wall disintegrates in the innards of the coffee-coloured soil. And I wake up with my forepaws aligned like the ones of a mole. Psst! When it snows again I will wreath a new membrane with the next othersider.