Thursday, May 19, 2005

the corner of infinite pain

come visit me where i live. in the corner of infinite pain. bring bee stings, bring tweezers, bring ancient neighbours that howl and tear their hair in the night.

together we shall crouch until our knees go numb.

when we're hungry, we will pine for the light of the open fridge door and cold noodles--but we won't dare rise to scout for snacks. instead we will steep in the pain of empty stomachs and growling hunger and thirst.

in the corner of infinite pain it is cold for me. for my wife it is damp and feverish. i long for a warm wool sweater to cuddle my purple chafed elbows---but it is not to be. mary-jo needles me as i whine, chiding me for weakness in the face of simple low temps.

PRESS ON SOLDIER! IN THE CORNER OF INFINITE PAIN THERE IS NO SURRENDER!
this is our cry. sometimes we yell it aloud and set off the howling mutts. sometimes we mumble it as we chew on our shirtsleeves, dreaming of pigeon pie. chewing on shirtsleeves leaves them damp and disagreeable.
generally adding to the pain.

once there were pigeons in the corner of infinite pain. they scratched about, scrabbling for crumbs and pooping on every available surface. when mary tried to spear them with her knitting scissors they flew away. now only feathers and crusty shit remain as pigeon legacy. strangely, i find this makes my craving for pigeon pie even stronger.

INFINITE PAIN. i do not remember how long have we been in this corner, or what i did before the world of bee stings, rats and creeping sewage was created. nor can i say how long we'll stay. the pain changes every day.
we grow thinner.
paler.
a raft of sores grows on mary-jo's chin. to enhance the pain, i poke her sores with a broken pencil.
she responds by crushing my swollen testicles with her cancerous cane. it is love that moves her to chide me. love for the contract. the contract of the corner, the corner of infinite pain has consumed us. the corner has become our diner. our church. our bed. our garden.
our bath
our work place
our recreational paradise.
we are patriots of pain.
if there is one thing we know, it is the sensations that make us hurt, turn our skin to a bloodied mess and flood our sensory organs with fear!

think of us when you have goosebumps by the fire. when your child burns his tongue on hot lasagne. in our corner these moments would be infinite.

that's why they call it the CORNER OF INFINITE PAIN.

-------------------------------------------------------------

one day a shaman came to the corner of infinite pain.
he was drawn by the yelping.
harpie noises.
he thought perhaps he could find nirvana.
they could bury him to his neck
in the sand
(the sand is scorching on the surface.
your feet will blister.
underneath it is damp and wormy
and things squirm against
the infinite flesh
of the shaman’s crotch)

the shaman didn’t find enlightenment in the corner of infinite pain. but he did discover many creatures crawling through the sand. they looked like the hybrid love children of fleas and prawns, so he called them flawns. (although he would have liked to consider that some of the prettier female flawns might in fact be pleas).
the flawns liked to crawl into moist areas
they buried their flawny faces into his sweating crotch
then nibbled and suckled through the weeping skin of his retinas.
the shaman had flawn eyes
they were very painful
in the corner
of infinite
pain.

things like to multiply in the corner of infinite pain
there used to be a thick metal tube running across the ceiling
it was high enough that you forgot it was there until it hit your skull with its cold metal WHACK.
the contents of the tube were then jimmied around as it bounced loosely: the putrid stench of pigeon carcass seeped out from its tubey pores. filling up the corner like an errant smokemachine.

one day, the tube exploded. seemingly, the pigeon carcasses had been multiplying like hyperactive smelly amoebas. now the tube is a metal carcass itself. an infinite waterfall of pigeon carcasses rain down from its jagged edges. I sit beneath the waterfall, bathing in a perennial shower of festering pigeon guts. they scatter on the ground and mary-jo stabs at them arthritically with her needles.
they take no notice.
they are all dead.

0 Comments:

Post a Comment

<< Home