Democrat, Illinois - The ElectroLounge

!
He tests & there is the pain he expects & it’s much worse than he recked. On a
tether, then, on the least shores, held there,
well, then, sideways? That works OK but nothing changes, it’s like no movement at
all,
what of straight down? He tries, feels a little give but the floor beneath him is too
near, freedom isn’t that shallow,
up, straight up? Before the thought gestures he shoots up a human projectile up &
for more moments he is free! The tentacles strain to hold him
& he lets himself be pulled back, flails against it, bestializes his mind to the primitive
fury over the cage—
idle floats, & waits, unable to wake or to dream elsewhere
how long these things take to pass he doesn’t know, dreams bear no necessary
relation to time—
Is it Boss Dogg at the controls? Doubtful. A guard, maybe even a simple
computer/drug interface, nothing terribly complex—
but how? There was a middle to this—after he tented down & before his capture—
he lets his mind loosely float among a scatter of words & images, randomly returning to this
issue & away again in mid-mental sentence, images half conjured—if it’s indeed an
automated trap he’s in, there may be no release for hours, days.
He thinks of Marie, for just a nude arched back sexhigh yowling then a deep pulse
within says “twist it” & so he hits her hard like he never had, hits her hard, walks out &
slams the door arriving to an old wooden tavern for a night of hard booze & faceless sex with
whatever raises his sniff—
looses from that & scatters severally among random thoughts, mixes this & that,
wondering if everything he’s trying is less than little challenge for his captor to untangle,
conjures Marie again & a pretty whore & the humiliation of fucking the bitch while Marie
watched
& his brother Mickey deaf & gaptoothed, died when little, fell from a barn’s hayloft,
sad, sadness he couldn’t possibly feel he does, does hard & vast & old, gnarls in his heart,
old gnarls—
returns to trying his shackles like this was the way out, scrounging his mind for a
weapon, but not really, but really—
!
lxxxiii.
Can you tell me any new thing, truly, for I would wish it now, this new thing, the
one not slapped with patience, heavy hours to the oar, an irretrievable piece to the bastards
bearing the coin—
New thing? No. More of the same. Knee before the king, flash of his sweet slay some
other hour, for now the knee & the thank-ye & the scrape of politeness & humiliation—
O turn that old thing up a bit—new boss, same as the old boss, kiss it smiling today,
it’s shit nothing in the moon, the desert, any high that matters—
“Argument inside remains, don’t it, mate?”
85
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