Midnight Microwave Nachos,
Into Trashy Isekai binges.
Staying up until 1:30!
Such scandal,
For old cryptids like us.
Used to sleeping dozens of millennia,
Brumating away in space.
Queer things.
Odd things.
Asexual obliviousness –
Neurodivergent wonderlands.
Absolute Zero.
In terms of pressure.
Very chill.
An absence of any matter at all,
Really.
Whereas earth creatures;
Just undergo ebullism.
Devoid of the 14.7 rough psi needed.
One atmosphere,
Almost identical to bar.
So:
Our liquids start to boil.
Eyes.
Mouth.
Blood in our veins.
Room temperature?
Still boils in zero atmosphere,
Boils us down even lukewarm to freeze-dried jerky.
Never to decompose.
Floating forever –
Until we burn up.
In some atmosphere somewhere.
If we forgot to exhale?
Lungs simply explode.
No bueno for lung-bearing Earthlings of any species.
This?
This is the silly dark weaving that follows nachos,
Late at night.
“Folly A La Cryptid.”
When my darker halves emerge –
Ripping forth from sallow,
Pale,
Rolls of fat.
Stretch marks of white & purple,
Sans any feeling.
Exeunt.
More morbid jokes –
For the Scholars 800 years from now.
If we don’t make like Venus –
Before 2100.
Used to cut into my stretch marks,
Just to observe the flows of my blood.
Thought of using such self destruction,
As macabre party trick,
Morbid.
Can’t count how many times I “performed.”
Completing minor self-surgeries.
Once let an ex go at an ingrown toenail,
Blade & all.
As I chugged vodka,
Somehow deeming it “better” –
Than going to a fucking hospital.
Darwin Awards,
A La Sepsis.
All these horrors?
In hundreds,
Or thousands?
These;
Are my truest witchcraft;
Dragging power out,
From intricate knowledge of pain.
Ten thousand means of suffering.
Not immortal,
Only hard to kill.
Not invincible,
Just really hard to kill.
Listening awake to doctors –
Each performing surgery,
To varying degrees.
Frozen in feeling,
But pondering a time.
Or ten.
This Curse?
Acid reflux.
Again,
Midnight Nachos.
That Hex?
Intentional agony,
Of teenage ADHD boredom –
In the theatre booth.
Carving crosses,
With a sharp mechanical pencil,
In between my knuckles.
Had long since given up on religion,
So perhaps they were plus signs.
Sums of hurt.
Final totals,
We’ll never know.
Lacking paperwork,
That never existed in the first place.
My self destructions,
Are still frequent.
Almost in perverse,
Mirror-warped foil.
Additions to my torture,
In forms of purest hedonism.
Mockeries Of Buddhist Principles,
Like Many Darts,
Or Divine Sufferings.
Inflicting Damage.
In defiance of fate,
Destiny,
Perhaps Reality itself.
Flirting with my old flame Death,
Still Hungering for all time,
To get back together.
Surely we’ve all dated…
Totems we carved ourselves?
Exertions of will or psyche,
Upon our Universe.
Magic?
Seldom easy.
But some of us,
Have more readily available sources.
Need no Coven,
Really.
Known such pain & suffering,
Trauma or torture,
That my power is infinite,
Scaled to the weight,
Of my existentialism.
Blood Curse held tight,
In lieu of all else we ever held dear –
Desperately clutched in our frail arms.
Black Magic,
Perhaps Riddled Cipher,
Only a weight worth the Metaphor,
That claims them.
As you can see…
I’ve a great many Metaphors.
Stretching forever,
Outwards,
Oscillating at frequencies,
Only Pattern Recognition can see.
Squeezed like a mantis;
Caught between two panes of glass.
Two dimensions.
Walls.
Four.
Five.
Thus rectifies Spiritualisms like parasites:
I’ll use any tool, trick, tip, toy,
Even trouble.
But for now?
I’m just a Baba,
Old Lady;
Happy for bags of chips.
“Folly A La Cryptid.” // Mockeries Of Buddhist Principles, Like Many Darts, Or Divine Sufferings.
