The sky was blue like the deep sea. Venus in brilliance. A crescent revealing the sun’s dominance, even during l’heure bleue; the shadow of the moon etched in an even clearer darkness.
A black sun, I thought — a crow’s head in my arms.
My consciousness flickered like candlelight beneath the orange street lamps. They danced with the night sky’s blue, like golden shimmer in a field of blooming thistles.
The asphalt beneath me was black, still warm after its decay beneath the violence of the day.
A quiet house, its windows like eyes. Was it looking back? Innocently white, with yellow lamps piercing mine.
If only I could see the horizon beyond the trees — it would be cyan, like Uranus’ gaze.
I wished I could reach it with my red-glittering hand. I reached toward the white surfaces, maybe I could stain them red.
Eyes.
My eyes. A theater, or a wall painting. I would hollow out the holes, hold my invaluable treasure in glass, just to see inside. To see it from the outside.
There, I could watch my intestines shine — yes, shine like rubber — in the spectacle of my own gaze.
But everything turned red anyway.
I lay there, fucked by the earth’s rotation.
Ready to face the whole mess —
in a final orgasm, at the edge of my body’s ultimate
limit…