Listen to author

Prince grew out of sleep, still fetal, stoked the velvet sweat melody his guitar was sticky with and let sunlight deepthroat the world into a temporary form of order. It was Tuesday. Again. Amidst him the briefly unwet receptacles of his future hymn lay prostrate, waiting. Houses. Hours. Bodies. The places that wore themselves daily as compliant, burping through the strata of obsolete lovemaking with a diligence only appropriately described as Infomercial. Locations thus were a moan slowed to static. A juice overplugged into dirt cognition gallons from true blistering even calgon could not take them away. If pressed, as only ever, Prince downshifted his fingers to get under the rational. To better prayer locate. To cuddle dust by its sworn competitor, all dew like the ocean’s shattered apparel. This was his fledgling amplification method: slip in and thicken. Filling and filling until filling was not full but a compound solid of glittered thirst. Baking they that leaked their Christian name to strangers in the beige-quaked everyday. Their handshakes, frayed. The numbers that were other than Prince protested Extravagance is only skin deep he who was Prince responded You don’t know how deep skin is.

 
 

The orgies of human adherents throbbed unconsciously below him, sewn into the girl drone every birth lurched to ere the very budget their health culture required: integers, background masculinity, moss trained to leach nostalgia into toes. What they escaped was greater than what they gained, but already the truth was known: half of beauty is desertion. They were fond of saying Below us was us, but unchurned. Now their fur was activated / argued. A mauled audit. They often looked to Prince for some inaugurated pharmacy blast but purred themselves by any word or look he typed out into random daytime. By gulps they would try to learn him, desire aimed at everything, warding off the normal, a prison light. The magnets of his imagination, they came to Prince to remoisten the desiccated centuries. To give the bleating of their limbs a target. They came to hear the pelvis turn over and hum, an engine. They came to hear the gender emergency. Surging. Infinity fingered. They came to hear the shit minimum dismissed.

 
 

Born defoliated, Prince created no waste and no stain. No echo nor answer. A practicing singularity, he resisted the urge to write a subgenre of his molecules. The doubting herd wiggled and throttled him, a queen, though nothing took nor stood. Years of their seed flooded him, thick inputs grown of devotion, season after dizzying season. They were pilgrims without mercy. Once only, when vast groins of land distended in imitation of a sky that daily slobbered its contents regardless of partner, did Prince produce a hair. A totaled morsel flickering toward the outside world like a ruined verb composed of smoke. Cursive, it swerved. They carved it a home from the active cache of their anniversary muscles and rained it out of famine. They cooked it questions, prodding its authenticity. Beats per minute? Mother’s crush direction? Reasons for breathing? Yes. It was the right semen frequency. It was cooed and combed. Oiled into a wall. Woven. And then without precaution, it citizened itself beyond contraption, folding over and out, an animate thanksgiving. Of all influence, it was the most invisible to Prince, muted to him like a lotion absorbed silently into skin. Except this lotion touched nothing. Also, it was not silent.

 
 

<Pending Breakdown> Blood Type: Double negative. Marital Status: Rapidly approaching. Favorite Television: Dreams we volunteer to euthanize, that untapped ass. Brand: Upper Management. Target Heart Rate: Just pale of light speed. Dimensions: Thud x Beeping. Most Recent Cleaning: When pestered I routinely shepherd helled realms of meth; retch. Visibility: One coward’s length. Preferred Payment Method: Three further degrees of separation. Alternative Payment Method: A scalp. Pet Name: Willing Victim. Height / Weight: Crumbs / Quarts. Fragrance Density: Get baptized if you want to know. Sexual Activity: Millennia. <End of Breakdown>

 
 

Songs were birthed neither for recognition nor profit. Necessity too, was insufficient. Only this: Prince’s doors were open to contagion. Where we were glue, he was aqueous. Where we were permanent, he was the breathing that drowned across that scent. His inhalation seemed to speak: If you think I will allow you to kill me with beautiful smells, heaven may yet admit you. Far from the boundary of perishing, he took in that which we cast as exercise. Terror. Gestation. The urge to scissor something. Anything. Every crisp of electricity rehydrated with saliva bent as though light through the pyramidal stone. There were not enough hours in the day. An ardent farmer, he made more. Hungry wedding rhythms clung with lace, he unzippered the banned channel harmonies, cubit upon cubit, drilling the merely medium rare into a topography of heavy permissions farther toward scalding. He felled the chirp dermis of birds, chasming their latchkey noise down a big princess glissando wherefore and whatnot. Each note an essential idol, even sixteenths, beats flung under a bus and yoked to the starclobbered night already pregnant. Light entire vagranted through component nostrils and identity dumped into the mother lode. Weeks that were just tunnels where adjacent weekends knuckled each other for the privilege to murder boredom. His sound pummeled gravel into cutlery, emails into dark-armed sugar, the sun into some laser beam fetus we should be ashamed to have quit worshipping. The chords he inched forth slid within orifices alternately slattern and cathetered, then left, wipeless. Maximumed gush collections that simultaneously confounded and undenned the purest tentacles of jealousy. All of us ate new thought / got smaller.

 
 

When the Hair Chamber heaved even half a flattering trimester into the hammered texture of a regular tomorrow, the prevalent leftovers choked on their own gonzo tarnish. Relativity was still kicking. Like a mattress tag, it was suspiciously irremovable. Prince received his soul fluctuations just like any similarly occupied mammal archive, but ultimately let them gibberish into extinction. Between the inoculated happiness smoldering out of doors and the flexed wattage the Hair Chamber spat just beneath waking versions of meat, Prince existed. He was affected yet incompatible. Was solicited, but did not barter. That somewhere was an industrial limbo as yet unsistered. He did not admit the splayed fascination that gorged itself only in miniature: attention melted by seconds, scraped popularity, the fecund way judgment arrived from one and spliced itself into others, themselves unweaponed by comparable bouts of ruthless light. In consequential orbits he quit simple division, the forked dosages of high caliber arabesque, any decoration that didn’t preach itself first from zeal: no firmament save its curd. What business pits hogged their smut crash shout meal into the general debt assembly, girth blurtings given a barely legal username everything tried to flirt him into constant monogamy, that unbreakable ratio. A field of individual bricks, bridled past a place name. Voices, a sweepstakes of voices. Like so many things they were synthesized.

 
 

From: The Hair Chamber. To: Anything Listening. Date: Before This Story. THOSE WHO FAIL TO SPREAD THIS MESSAGE ARE BEING PUNISHED BY BECOMING INCONSEQUENTIAL. IMITATE AND SEND TO YOUR FRIENDS OTHERWISE THE DEMON MAGIC STILL HAPPENS PLEASE SEND TO EVERY FRIEND YOU HOPE TO OUTLIVE IN SOFT ACCOMPLISHMENTS I HAVE NONE.

 
 

As it were, hence. Prince, drunk off his own stunk calligraphy. Littered with a ghost scented loud like some condiment who refused to lose its wrestling match with freshness. All was stomach; stomached. Of course. And where this work ground against the void Prince whiffed himself, distant. There was no confrontation, only a thinking within, a sick standing that some bump had been harvesting his more than average fruit since before writtened. He was alone, but only because his making was of so many they couldn’t be traced. If this knowledge were a taco, it would be a very, very scary taco.

 
 

If the Hair Chamber were math happening. Off-grid or otherwise. If it might wager its edits, whispering: 1. talk is an appropriate rotation 2. indefatigable beauty i have heard that 3. yes sleep is commandments but why Amongst other things it predicted. 4. if people can be into pigs they can be into sestinas. It doubled in weight from verse to chapter and again to database, powerlifting a technically correct father system one of zero recommended. The laminated property so many had branded the past. This didn’t happen. It bit. Not sterile but strategic. Not cerebral but a tungsten. Its signal was too wished to be for-real, too built to be clawed from skin which spent any time learning from failure. Perfect felt precious, hexproof. Pleathered. A hospital world made of egregious syllables. Torso battery of hideously complete kisses, full contact hygiene dreams well into their tricklings, there was no halftime in sight. Its smell scrubbed out then came back for seconds, a desperate labwork scribbling for answers not because of imagination but just because. If it published the heavy end of beefed up scream, furious bingings toward boy, then metal. If it babbled and damaged down the drains of catchphrase, the way all rain sounded like potato chips, but coordinated. If it overtaxed itself, some constructive fumble. If it wasn’t was’d.

 
 

Within Prince. Hurtling. A lopsided gigahertz, the varnished gears of logic that had not already rented an engraved neighbor solution sounded a teensy bit like this: Then the day goes acreasing and something strands me, half-croaked, between a conspiracy of clueless surfaces not unlike a napkin. How I dive and vowel across it like a skepticism too produced to gasm through. Why I carpet even streets that never called back, wall to wall, looking for the uppity hips of disaster to spread just so my mouth can claim its baggage I am not a human I am a dove I am not a human I am a dove I am not a human I am a dove I am not a human I am a dove I am not a human I.

 
 

Prince skipped addition and buried his curious moon disobedience myths toward an arithmetic not occupied by such aggressive programs of closetry. An abdominal holocaust wept in eager seas he fed and conversely fed upon. A crop. And so on. And so moreover he chugged through the world, lithic, with a virtually broken horn velocity as though it were caged in safety packaging, discarding the polished crawls of time bright with distraction. Wine tithings the size of nice twinkles. Recreation, that unrated marinade. Basically, he banned sweatpants. Over and around him the bulk eye sinking itself through bleach fields, them that were unwed in some lesser form of toddler, friction graves like white on rice. Breezily hieroglyphed, the dull fondlings of matter orchestrated themselves for exposure, rewound growl architectures hedged against the legally nude beach of their primary babyface. A prepaid spiel so flimsy it swished dimples.

 
 

{The present is always penultimate = I have no youth it continues for a mothership = Squirt induced famishings the inside of white never dared to lavish = Crowdsourced reptile genealogy = Strobe Sabbath = Swarmish slowjams through an exploded view}

 
 

Don’t speak. Spill. Don’t drip or tumble annulled, skid as if a wrinkle. Don’t even get me started. Prince is am is. Liminal. A promiscuous species of fringe we didn’t prove past the general sense of fisted or kissing. Fortnights of stagnant happenings vanity mirrored into more commotion-ridden enjambments, a nest of massive-caloried outcomes where flamboyance is excavated from random scrap so wide and without flinching even the remainder humps color. An explicit spit cataclysm somehow mommyblogged across glitched organisms like an ambient cuticle pulled back. The went tense goes ballistic. A wretched glamor of flatulence – once maidenly stabbings in their ogred glow mode – the mules over mules of guzzling infrastructure between the only two visible letters of “No” – this and that, the originals – treadmill of kittened dragqueen, double or triple albumed, et al. It got gobbled. Or gobbling. No age limit. No minimum. This is something spent instantaneous and revisioned, a luxurious flourish of basic nature: Stars, the volcano upholstered drugs goalless and unshorn, dirt just standing there, waiting to be fertile, living wood continuing to knit its grooves though it’s our future slave. Nature, once such a game-changer, out of ideas. This time I hung out for the aftermath:

 
 

How genitals smell bad but amazing. How hands can be ampersands and I am afraid of being a phrase. How blinking is a lubrication to ease our seeing vehicles for future impoundments. How we don’t think of weather as relentless but when has it ever stopped. How planting an apple seed you don’t necessarily get the same kind of apple tree. How all lakes are dark and crooked and that’s where we volunteer water to surround us. How something is only stubble for a brief period of time, then a mess. How we are already gore-filled and mobile. How a party is boring until it shrivels into its smaller rooms, uncensored. How we build cubes not pyramids. How hunger works. How the cell smuggles itself into population, a copy of a copy of a copy, still alive.