I rolled my eyeballs from the point between the two indents before her neck, to the end of her chin and I rolled off into the air. Oh her neck was so muscular and pale, and the shape of her skull had to be formed to the records of her ancestry. It is this truth I observe that she pencil-dived through the bones of her familial timeline and leapt out, fully nude, with a glint of perspiration aglowing her flesh. As she, with right knee bent, left foot aimed downwards, turns her wrists and palms in turn to face away from her body, and her arms out like spreading the imaginary line of transcendental wings except outwards in a fashion that the wings are facets of her hands. But the container held her there in front of me, fashionably clothed in a black shirt and black blouse. Her blood orange hair fastened to her head like a delicate statue. What do I say to ameliorate my thoughts of fascination, except to flutter within my overstimulated brain, to be dull, but to be authentic. I hope I appear as a being from another world. I'm terribly unrealistic, I know, and full of this blood... this youthful blood unpastuerized like I'm a neurotic sloth. Terrible, I know.

Memory of Birds from Phleghm

I swallow it all every time I swallow, it is a nest of tobacco reaching down into my stomach and scratching against the casings of my organs. That is not in moderation, forgive me lords of moderation for I have reached penalization of my body. The way I scope out the whole of this feeling of rich nausea, it is in the swallow. The gulp, the whole egg gone down. Like a snake, the egg makes a large bulge in my body. I feel it as is, a whole egg of which I'm aware. The birth will never come due to the entrenchment of my digestive system. Birds will never be born within me, if only for a fraction of darkness they are my children untill their shell corrodes to my stomach acids; at the moment between light and darkness, death comes to the baby as its born, but only it knew the crimson black light of my blood and juices.

I kept it warm untill, untill...
I kept it warm untill, untill...
I kept it warm untill, untill...
A sweeping chill, a sweeping chill...
A weeping hill, a weeping hill...

Like reality, birds made freedom from the chute of our home's fireplace. To correlate a related memory due to my cognitive, I speak of this prior memory of my life:

Rapid flaps from a confused suburban bird; fell down in fate the chimney to be released once again; by the hands of God we released her for her life: as we opened the charred black gates, removed the crosshatched metal screen and pulled back the fire shield: we stood back, ready for her to realize. I would wish not to mention her confusion with our glass living room window, or the circles of her panicked flight patterns. But storytelling desires I speak of her with my dearest own personification. She escaped her terror.

To center my story I base, I base...
That smoking increases your blood pressure, your whole pressure...
That phleghm recounts behind the throat, I swallow...
And that I swallow is what I feel (and fell to write)
That a glob of phlegm is like swallowing an egg whole.

But why a bird?

Night at Bay of Lake Superior

I was superficial compared to the beach and its miles of lake. The moon glared at us like a glimmer of light against the lens of a telescope. Constructed fires were scattered about our side of the perimeter of the beach. Football field lengths seperated each one, and its respective groups of people. I stood at the breaking of waves, following the largest waves with my eyes 'till they reached their dissipation. Maybe I had felt previously removed from social interaction, with the deduction of reasonable or interesting things to say, broken down to an indecipherable snicker. But resting my focus from the smooth bumps of the wake, I evaluated the water's horizon and whether the distance it owned was to be considered vast, broad, endless, or merely a safe image decided by its aesthetic value. The lights of the city twinkled beyond the water's axis.

"It's like an acid trip,"

I thought about the last dosage of chemicals I suffused into my body... and tried to wiggle my eyes convincingly in an attempt to convey its dramatic effects on my pysche to a couple of fellow teenagers. Rather, I explained an enigma of its presence on my judgment. Such was the glimmering dim and undim of the orange city lights, far away. Another phenemonon, another enigma of appearance. As if a dynamic current of electricity seeped into the circuits... in a breathing sort of fashion, almost human. Inhale, exhale. Of course, it was safer for electricity to immitate a raging river.