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[audio:https://killauthor.com/audio/issuefifteen/kenny_mooney.mp3|titles=Crank House|artists=Kenny Mooney]

This crank house grows, breathes, bleeds into me; caked in white, steel skeleton grows as I grow. This crank house dreams in stone, sings in subliminal harmonies. It crawls, spider-like, from the wreckage of the construction site and moves interminably towards me.

In orange sick light, city microwave heat, this bursting skull throb grows, this sickness grows like the hospital grows like the hospital breathes like I breathe, under clean clinical white bleached in uniform creases. This sickness moves through brick and bone makes skin white and thin and tears it from the meat in strips. I stand peeling in the bathtub, peeling bleeding chemicals in the shower, crank house cold on warm flesh, bare bulb lighting. Water runs black and red black and red down into the lipless metal mouth.

I see them build the hospital. I see them destroy the hospital and build it up. I see them building steel legs, all arachnid angles sprawling wide and long, reaching. I see them throw bricks red and crusty as dried blood and I smear my blood on the window on the mirror I trace lips and eyes in the mirror blood.

In this apartment I grow, against flat walls I grow. I throw myself against flat plaster walls yellow and orange and sick. On the floor, in the dust, I roll like a dead dog. At the window, filthy hospital dust rain streaked, my hands against that glass as the hospital outside grows, as it breathes against my rooms. I throw myself against the ceiling, against the smoke-stained ceiling and uniforms walk the halls below. Those white uniforms, those dark-haired uniforms. Red lips and eyeless in those stairwells. They leave a trail of ink black and bleeding through cotton underwear, soaked in the sink with detergent and pills, a flick knife mirror look, an expression of tenement despair.

I follow those pathways on the clean white hospital floors, those bleach reeking floors, through the rooms of my apartment. She’s been here with her uniforms and polyester poison, her hair washed in the dust of hospital brick. She’s brought the disease with her, she’s been here with the sickness and the yellow and the orange. I’ve seen her naked in the shower caked in that crust. I’ve seen her scrub that canker from her skin pink and tender and fleshy. I’ve wanted her in that shower in that dirt in that filth and blood and crust. I’ve made her hospital quiet in those shower moments in amber light. Red lips and eyeless.

My doctor fumbles blindly through files and cold hands point and flash cutting angles through surgery skies. He peers yellow into my eyes and takes blood from my veins as I faint on nylon and vomit on blue carpet. This disease this sickness this crank house he is lost he is scattered on the page. I see him knocking on my bedroom window his mouth all red black masticating drooling on the glass and smearing signals through blood and shit. I tell him the hospital grows the hospital breathes just as I grow and I breathe. He writes sprawling blue ink from fingertips stained chewed on, blue lips flapping in words and more words. He is a drowned man on a winter beach.

This hospital now, this bright fluorescent daylight in wards and corridors and dark-haired uniforms walking polyester poison pathways, I see those thin weary smiles all red lips in monochrome eyes. I see grey now, nothing but the grey, the filtered down through fathoms of ocean, the great tide pulling me through the belly of the crank house into the heart, that great singularity that rips me to pieces, skin peeling away, bleaching my bones in violent violet chemicals. It will render me terminal in the amber glare of its ageless fire.

We are in this hospital we are in this crank house, in its concrete guts with its pipes and ducts and corridors, its halls and wards and uniforms, the stench of its chemicals and drugs, worn thin and washed through on pills and bleach. We are closed in amongst the sick and the degenerate, the doctors laughing through thin pink lips teeth clattering chewing on paperwork and plaster. We lust after the dark-hair and uniforms and polyester perfume. We lie in beds staring at yellow ceilings shadows dancing patterns across cracks. And spiders crawl from corners towards the light, the spiders seek the sickness in orange and yellow.

In these rooms I grow. Against flat walls I grow. In these rooms I throw myself against flat plaster walls. Orange and yellow and sick.